


Cold Frost and Sunshine

by Somedrunkpirate



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Confessions, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Healthy Communication, Hockey Media, Homophobia, I'm just having fun, Ice Hockey AU, Jealousy, Loneliness, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Plot Twist, Recovery, Slow Burn, So many tropes, Therapy, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-04-19 18:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19137850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: “I’m just hoping, you know, that this captain thing will just— I don’t know— make everything feel alive again,” Napoleon says, ripping apart a napkin, thrumming with restless energy, “I love hockey, I’ll always love it, I’ll always be it, but. God. I don’t know. Sometimes, it just feels like I’m skating in circles, seeing nothing but the same boards every time.”A fic about falling in love, depression, therapy and recovery, in an ice-hockey trench coat.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bonjour people! I have missed you all loads. This is a wip but I'm (knock on wood) hoping I'll be posting one chapter behind my writing process, so I don't get as stressed like normal. I'm still working very hard on the DD prequel but it's now 70k of Angst and I need to only write a few chapters to get it to the editing stage. Lemme tell you, that editing stage is already killing me. 
> 
> So I decided to give myself some fun and get back into the posting groove. This fic is just all tropes and my usual brand of angst with a hint of fluff and healthy communication (eventually). I hope yall enjoy it as much as I have so far! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I live in an iceless, snowless, country so this might be vaguely ice hockey flavoured but is in no way accurate. I am sorry for all yall real hockey fans out there.

It’s in the eyes. It always is. 

Napoleon takes a deep breath. Ignores the sting in his shoulders and the ache of his knee. In the corner of his vision, neon numbers glare in red as they tick down the time. Every flicker a second lost; ever dwindling, their chance to tie the game. 

The referee motions them forward. Napoleon drops in position. Heads pushed in close enough to see behind the fogged up visor. The eyes. That glint in Kuryakin’s eyes. A slight bit of sparkle that makes Napoleon’s stomach drop. Only five minutes left and he can’t let Russia make the chance dwindle further, until it’s impossible to overcome. 

There is a hiss of silence as they wait on the signal. Kuryakin leans forward in complete concentration. Jaw clenched taught, eyes on the puck. Napoleon knows that look like the handle of his stick, the fit of his glove. This is the face of a man who knows he’s going to score. 

Napoleon can’t let that happen. 

“I saw the papers,” Napoleon murmurs under his breath. “Wonder if your mother ever entertained Putin in her career, gave him some of her special happy endings, or if she kept it to lower corrupt pig-heads. You know, like your father.” 

Kuryakin’s eyes snap up, his previous focus at once replaced by freezing cold fury. The referee blows his whistle. Kuryakin is a second too late. Napoleon pounces on the puck without a thought and pushes it far, far away. The ice blows past him as he slides around D-men and teammates alike. His breath comes wheezing. The strain on his back almost makes him lose his speed, but right when he thinks he won’t make it, he spots the barest of gaps in the goalie’s stance. Napoleon shoots. 

The audience’s roar is nowhere greater than the rush of blood in Napoleon’s ears. Bailey rams him from the side, shaking him out of his shock, and Napoleon laughs as anonymous arms wrap around him, celebrating like they won the game, instead of merely prolonging it. 

“Focus guys,” Napoleon yells. “I want this one won before the clock runs out.” 

Backs are clapped and a line change is called. Napoleon skates to the bench when he notices Kuryakin, watching him glide past. His face — handsome, sharp — is etched in pure and blatant rage. Napoleon sags onto the bench with the coaches’ comments washing over him, unheard, until Kuryakin finally looks away. His eyes erringly back on the game like Napoleon doesn’t exist anymore. A thinly veiled lie. It’s the eyes, you see. And that look— the fire in them, the ineffable blue tightened in hatred and intent. Napoleon knows what revenge looks like, and it’s coming for him. 

He sighs, resigned. It had to be done. It will be worth it when they bring home gold, but he’s going to pay for it. Nothing he didn’t expect. The rink never has been very safe for Napoleon anyway, but his jabs are nothing but effective. With Kuryakin out for war, it might become more of a bloodbath than usual. 

Napoleon looks up. Only 3 minutes on the clock. What damage can he do?

Napoleon winces when Kuryakin slams Phillips into the boards. 

Time dwindles and dwindles. 

The referee calls for over-time. 

Shit. 

They have one way to win this, and with Kuryakin following his every move, it’s definitely going to hurt. Napoleon huffs a laugh; have it never be said he didn’t make sacrifices for this victory addicted nation. He’ll be lucky if he gets out of this on his own skates. There is a reason no one before dared to anger the great Russian legend in the making, but Napoleon never claimed to be a smart man. 

The puck hits the ice.

Napoleon skates until he doesn’t know how to think anymore. 

The gold costs him two ribs, a tooth, and a rivalry of the ages. 

Worth it. 

———

WHITE TIGERS CAPTAIN ILLYA KURYAKIN BANNED FOR TWO GAMES AFTER BLOODBATH

_AMC Hockey News, 2016. Written by: Michael Tremblay._

The captain of the White Tigers will have to leave his captain’s band behind for the coming two games after a bloody confrontation with Chimera. For those keeping an eye on the two teams, this news isn’t much of a surprise. Chimera’s star player Napoleon Solo and the White Tiger’s captain, have had many passionate altercations on the ice, ever since the 2014 Winter Olympics. The trade of Kuryakin to the White Tigers was met with eager anticipation by fans, all hungry to see how this legendary rivalry would play out on the North American Ice. Kuryakin is known as a reliable and focused captain, but Solo has consistently been his kryptonite. There have been rumours that Kuryakin will end up stepping away from captaincy whenever his team faces Chimera in the future. So far, management of the White Tigers have not responded to these speculations, but here at AMC-Media, we are curious to see if this recent altercation will change their tune. There are certain expectations for a captain, but Kuryakin seems to thrown these honourable guidelines out of the window whenever Solo smirks at him sideways. 

This is not to say that Solo has any claim to innocence. He might not initiate physical aggression— he has not started a fight since his college years — but it is not a secret that his words can cut through the pride of any man like warm butter. These observations are not often repeated, the secrecy makes them the hottest topic within the tabloid spheres, but the few players who have been more open about Solo’s taunts, have said that Kuryakin has good reason to hold a grudge. 

But surprisingly, in this particular instance, Solo was not the source of the Kuryakin’s benching. Their interactions were sharp, as always, but Kuryakin took his fist to the jaw of Gerald Young while Solo was on the bench. No one knows what Young did to draw the Russian’s ire, but the illegal checks and following physical altercation were enough for the board to decide that Kuryakin is in need a forced vacation. 

Did Solo do something that our cameras couldn’t pick up? Or was his proximity enough for Kuryakin to lose the icy calm exterior that he has become known for, after he stepped into the role of Captain? We might never know, but the fans sure seem surprised to see a shade of Kuryakin no one sees much of anymore. 

Except, of course, Napoleon Solo. 

———

“You’re an asshole, Johnson,” Napoleon grumbles, “You couldn’t have waited a week?” 

Johnson barks a laugh, the sound bright and airy. Napoleon smiles despite himself. He’s glad for him, honestly, but just a week would have been great. 

“Why should I?” Johnson says, all faux innocence as he takes a sip of his beer. “What does a week matter in the grand scheme of things? You knew it was coming up, Solo.” 

Napoleon glares at him.

Johnson pulls a surprised face, hand pressed on his heart. “Oh, you mean the charity event? The Captain’s Rush?” 

“That’s the one,” Napoleon says, but he’s losing his edge already, Johnson’s cheer merciless and swift. 

“I needed something to fill my new free time with,” Johnson says. “Grab some popcorn and watch some good television.” 

“You quit early so I can be your dancing monkey?” Napoleon sips his drink and shakes his head. “I’m saddened to hear you gave me the C purely for your entertainment. I hope it’s worth it.” 

“I’m sure it will be,” Johnson says with a big grin. “And who knows? Maybe you two kiss and make up. It’s for the kids, after all.” 

“At least he can’t kill me,” Napoleon agrees. “Traumatising little children is a bit much, even for him.” 

Johnson tcks, “He’s never tried to kill you, you’re being overdramatic, Caesar.” 

“And there is nothing you can do about it,” Napoleon says. “I’m the big boss now.” 

“All hail,” Johnson says, and raises his glass. “All hail Caesar, may his reign last longer than one week!” 

The bar erupts in laughter and applause, and Napoleon rolls his eyes at the behaviour of his teammates and staff alike. Napoleon moves closer to Johnson to murmur, “You’re footing my bill. Call it compensation for everything,” and then yells over the noise, “Round for the bar!” 

A new wave of sound erupts and Napoleon sits back down with a warm sensation spreading through his heart, hampered only slightly by the kernel of foreboding in the back of his mind. Because no matter how happy he is to take up the lead of this amazing team, he really could have done without being in a two man team with Kuryakin next Sunday. He can only hope that the circumstances will prohibit the amount of blood spilled. And who knows, maybe Johnson is right, and they can finally put this rivalry to rest. 

———

“Welcome to the AMC-Media Hockey hour, do we got a show for you! If you follow the news closely, you already know about the recent changes in the team structure of Chimera, but for some it’s still a bit of a surprise. Napoleon Solo has taken over from Raymond Johnson, leading Chimera to have a new captain for the first time in a decade. Some had speculated that Johnson would finally put away his skates this after his team won the Cup for the second time in a row, a few months ago, but the general reaction surrounding the announcement seems to be surprise. What is your take on this, Judy?” 

“Yes, I think the majority are surprised that Johnson really did it, because those speculations are as meaningless as they always had been. Johnson has been a rarity, almost a singularity; we don’t see players stay with their teams for that long all that often, never mind being a captain for what rounds off as a decade. Every year there were rumours of Johnson quitting, and every year he didn’t do it. It almost seemed like he was as legendary and eternal as their team’s namesakes. Longer lasting captaincies have been recorded, so I think people just assumed Johnson would continue until his body forced him to resign. There are no reports of any injuries, no recent falls or scandals that could have pushed his decision. So I ultimately think it was just Johnson deciding enough was enough, and no one truly expected that to happen. We’re all a little bit shaken up.” 

“I think you’re right, Judy. When I saw the first article I almost couldn’t believe it. But this is the way of sports, and times are a-changin, as they say. And speaking of change, Johnson isn’t the only one we should look at in this situation. Our new Chimera captain is Napoleon Solo, the man we know best from the goal that kept team USA afloat during the Olympic finals, ultimately resulting in gold medal. Johnson quitting might have been a surprise, but Napoleon’s take-over really isn’t, right?” 

“No, definitely not. You said it yourself, we know him from his Olympic performance, but I think we forget that Solo actually wore the C that game. Johnson was out with an ankle fracture he got in the quarter finals. So we already know Solo can handle the role, and we know how he functions under high pressure situations. We also know his reputation as a bit of an aggressor–“ 

“And when you say a bit, you mean he made an enemy of one of the more dangerous players in the game and it’s a race into the penalty box whenever the two are in the rink together?” 

“I tried to go for diplomacy, but you’re right. It seemed like Johnson always toned Solo’s fiery play down. We know how charming he can be. He has wit and smarts that made him very popular with both fans and all people in the ice-hockey circles. But to every blessing hangs a sin, so when Solo is out for it, he can turn that sweet talk into daggers real fast. Kuryakin gets the brunt of that action, and I wonder if without Johnson this rivalry will grow from flame to fire, or if the C by itself is a responsibility great enough to down Solo down a couple of notches.” 

“The rivalry of the ages will get their first test in this new dynamic in only a few days. You’ve been keeping up with it since the very beginning, Judy, what are your expectations for the Captain’s Rush Sunday? Can we tune in for the boxing with a dash of ice-hockey we usually expect from them?” 

“Honestly? I don’t think so. It will probably disappoint quite a few viewers who seem to love the conflict more than the game, but however great their dislike for one another be on the ice, they are both good sportsmen. Kuryakin isn’t shy when it comes to protecting his teammates from what he deems unfair play, but the short fuse he’d been known for in his younger years only has one name on it now. The same goes for Solo. It seems for the both of them, they’re each other’s exceptions. They’ve shown great respect for the game and all that comes with it. So yes, they might still knock each other around fighting for a win, but during a charity game? No, they will bury the hatchet for that one. I believe that, truly.” 

“Your trust in their integrity is admirable. Our listeners can vote on our twitter if they agree, or if they think it will be a Solo-Kuryakin conflict like any other. We will definitely be there to provide commentary, and remember to listen to the recap and analysis at midnight. Thank you, Judy, as always, and we will be back with more news, more sports and more exclusive insider knowledge- after the break.“

———

It’s all Johnson’s fault. This is really fucking all Johnson’s fault.

As much as Napoleon wants the mantra to work, it doesn’t seem to do more than frustrate him further. After all the jokes and chirps, Johnson actually took him aside and made that overly sincere Captain Face— which should honestly be illegal since he isn’t the captain anymore — and pulled a lecture on him. 

He’d said, “You know, if you want to show the team and the fans that you’re ready to be a captain, maybe this could be your first— assignment, so to speak. They’re talking like there is a war between you two, and yeah, there is bad blood, but don’t give them the fight they’re clambering for, will you? Talk to him, before the game. Let him know you’re gonna pull your punches, so he should pull his.”

And Napoleon, who never learned to be immune to the Captain Face, had promised he would do so. Which is how he’s ended up here: standing awkwardly next to a very angry-looking Kuryakin, and trying to get a fucking word out of his goddamn mouth. 

This is so Johnson’s fault. 

“Hey, I know we don’t—“ Napoleon stops, at a loss on how to phrase this without causing offence. He should have thought this through before, instead cussing Johnson out in his head. He should have done a lot of things. 

It’s weird, too, to see Kuryakin bore holes in his skull without ice between them— without the protection of his gear around Napoleon’s body. Napoleon restrains himself from crossing his arms, or pasting a smile on his face to hide his discomfort. Kuryakin won’t respond well to either. 

The silence stretches from awkward to humiliating. He’s supposed to be good at this, but any ability to string words together gets lost into Kuryakin’s blank expression. 

“Spit it out, Solo,” Kuryakin snaps, and there it is— Napoleon has missed his chance. The inkling of hope to smooth their shit over, even for one damn game, gets lost in the pure _loathing_ Kuryakin fits into that little phrase. It’s almost beautiful in it’s efficiency, Napoleon could learn something from it. 

But in this circumstance, it’s just kinda sad. 

Napoleon deflates a little, and a self-loathing chuckle slips out under his breath. Kuryakin tenses, and Napoleon almost laughs at himself. He failed his first attempt at being a worthy captain a week in. That must be a record. 

“It’s just,” Napoleon says— tries, despite himself, “it’s for the kids. For one game.” 

Kuryakin stares for a moment longer, which Napoleon can’t blame him for, because he hasn’t actually asked a question, or really made any point. 

“Work together, for once?” 

Napoleon holds out a hand. He ignores the ridiculous thought that Kuryakin might break his wrist. He might be an emotionless hockey-robot, but he isn’t stupid enough to fight outside the rink. Probably. 

There is a pause, an unreasonably long pause. Or maybe it’s only a few seconds. Napoleon doesn’t have a clue. 

Kuryakin stops staring so intensely and huffs a breath. “Fine.” 

He doesn’t make a move to shake the hand Napoleon is still holding out, but he loosens his stance, his face falling out of rigidity, and he ends up looking— Napoleon doesn’t know. At least it isn’t anger, or any of its other various flavours. He’d be able to recognize those from a mile away. 

“I expect you to score,” Kuryakin says, eyebrow raised. “Now that you’re on my team.” 

If that isn’t a peace offering, Napoleon doesn’t know what is. He throws him a grin and responds in kind, “I’m not your anything. I’m every bit a captain as you are.” 

“You’re a rookie captain, barely a week old,” Kuryakin shoots back. “I lead.” 

And Napoleon almost laughs, light with relief— Illya motherfucking Kuryakin is _chirping_ him. He wants to thank him, suddenly, but that isn’t how this works. So he says, “Can’t say you’re wrong. Okay, Cap, I’m listening,” and hopes it will suffice. 

Kuryakin lips twitch, small and unexpected but _there._ And that, the hint mirth on Kuryakin’s face, lights up a quiet sense certainty that this is going to work out. They’ll bring these kids the fun they deserve. Napoleon mentally apologises for the shit he thought at Johnson, even if he hadn’t heard any of it. 

As they hash out strategy and change in their gear, a small part of Napoleon wonders if this truce will hold. As the score climbs higher Kuryakin’s lips twitch again and again. Napoleon finds himself in awe of how Kuryakin keeps finding him, how his assists always hit home. It’s almost scary, how easily Kuryakin is able to switch from enemy to teammate. He seems to know where Napoleon is every second of the game. They’re playing as if they’ve been training together for years, like Kuryakin knows every part of Napoleon’s play like his own. It is exhilarating. Napoleon never wants the event to end. 

So yes, when Kuryakin squeezes his shoulder after another goal, Napoleon grins back like he would to any other team mate. And yes, when Napoleon says, “Now I know why even the worst of your team can score, you just give them the puck on a fucking platter,” and Illya actually fucking _chuckles_ , Napoleon starts to believe that this is the start of a new age between them. 

In the end, he shouldn’t have been that naive. 

The euphoria of the game lasts far into the night— Napoleon feels amazing, seeing all those little kids smile wider than their faces can hold, knowing that he’s doing something that _matters,_ something more than chasing just another win. 

He might be a little too honest about it, his tongue loosened by the champagne and then later by the cocktails he hadn’t even ordered. He might be talking a little too much, a bit too long. But Kuryakin is just— there. Listening. 

It’s a constant hit of adrenaline — to have him there, to say these things — but it all blurs together in the comforting embrace of alcohol, and he finds himself telling Kuryakin doubts he didn’t even share with Johnson. 

“I’m just hoping, you know, that this captain thing will just— I don’t know— make everything feel _alive_ again,” Napoleon says, ripping apart a napkin, thrumming with restless energy, “I love hockey, I’ll always love it, I’ll always be it, but. God. I don’t know. Sometimes, it just feels like I’m skating in circles, seeing nothing but the same boards every time.”

Napoleon steals the napkin under Kuryakin’s glass, but Kuryakin says nothing, just tilts his head as if to say, _keep going._

“You know, our games— for a while there, it was the only ones I’d feel anything for. Trepidation, some fucking survival instinct. I don’t know. The rest is just, just numb.” 

This— that. God. That is too much. The napkin tears in half between his fingers, but his stupid lips keep talking. “Kinda been like that for a while, you know. Don’t really remember where it started. Can’t really remember when it wasn’t like that the last time. There are good moments, today was good— today was _so good._ But usually, you know, usually it’s just—“ 

He has no reason to trust Kuryakin with this and every reason that he _can’t._ If anyone knew that he feels like this. Fuck. He could lose everything before he could blink. No one needs the captain to be— detached, or, whatever the fuck this is. No one wants to know that the star of Chimera, the man every kid wants to be, has trouble getting out of fucking bed sometimes. It would ruin everything, for them to know— for the tabloids to know. They would burn him to the ground. How _dare_ he? How dare he be so _ungrateful_ —

“I’m not ungrateful for— for everything,” Napoleon tells Kuryakin. Hoping he’ll believe him. “I hate it that I can’t— can’t seem to appreciate it like I’m supposed to, you know. I hate it. I hate that more than anything. But maybe I don’t— I don’t deserve it. Maybe I just don’t— belong, anymore.” 

And that is— why is he saying these things?

He _loves_ hockey. He’s talking like he _doesn’t,_ that isn’t— isn’t true. But living without hockey would feel like cutting of a limb. He _loves_ his team. He would never want to leave them behind in the turmoil of Johnson leaving. Losing the core of the Chimera like that. He doesn’t want to burden them with this— He doesn’t want to leave them behind. He _can’t_ leave them behind. 

But. 

What he’s saying is also just, true. He would give everything, absolutely everything, to make the game feel like it once did. Like it had today: euphoric, intense, and like it fucking mattered. 

Maybe he doesn’t belong, if he can’t fucking feel like that anymore. 

Kuryakin just stands there— watching him dig his own fucking grave. Saying nothing. Is face is— it’s not even judging. 

And that makes something snap. Napoleon is drowning in disgust and shame but Kuryakin has the gall to— to be above that. To watch him fail as a player, as a captain, hear him literally confess that he’s a fraud and should never have been chosen for anything, should’ve been left in the dust before this darkness could take everything down with him and—

But Kuryakin doesn’t meet him there, in that darkness, he touches Napoleon’s wrist and speaks with _sympathy._

The frustration that comes with a crumbling mind roars outward, and it’s so easy to twist it towards the target he’s been hitting for so many years. 

It’s a habit, that’s all. 

It’s not because Napoleon is hit with a heavy wave of _want,_ twisting Kuryakin’s face to mean something it fucking can’t, and while half of him wants to lean in, do something with the whirlpool of emotions he’s been feeling all day, like— 

like bite at Kuryakin’s lips and—

The other half of him sees his— enemy? rival? — pity him, and he lashes out. 

Kuryakin is saying something, and Napoleon almost can’t hear it in the sudden pounding in his skull, “— you know. Captainship is honour, it should give you direction, calm, _meaning._ It matters—“

“How the fuck would you know what _matters_ to me?” Napoleon snaps. “Your life is nothing but the fucking game. I’ve heard about you, Kuryakin. You playing from dusk to dawn, _obsessive_ , even your physician wants to tie you down to a bed? No social life, no family, no nothing? How the hell can you know about how this feels, this— this un-belonging, this _drifting_ , when every second you’re fucking begging to be on the ice, like a fucking addict.” 

Kuryakin’s open, beautiful face, shuts down at the first words Napoleon utters, and slides into blankness further and further as Napoleon raves on. He keeps watching. His eyes say nothing, just staring Napoleon down, and the lack of response only fuels Napoleon further. He wants Kuryakin to yell at him, to skin him alive with scathing insults like he fucking deserves. He wants disgust, he wants rage— He wants Illya to crowd him, push him back against a wall and just—

_Fuck._

“You’ll never fucking understand,” Napoleon shouts, and people around them start to notice. A rush of shame makes him sick, and makes him smile. “The rumours are true right? You’ve never had a girl, never had anyone. You know why that is, Kuryakin. It’s because you’re a fucking slut for the ice. You just want everyone to fucking worship you for what you win, because you know you’re not worth anything else. You’re ashamed. You’re— Fuck.” 

Napoleon slams his glass on the bar and pushes himself off. The world flips over and splits into two’s and three’s. A hand grabs his shoulder, preventing him from falling on his ass, but Napoleon yanks himself free, stumbling his way through the staring crowd. 

He doesn’t want to look back. He just want to go to his hotel and pretend this day never fucking happened. But he can’t help it. Illya is still watching, his gaze makes Napoleon shiver. Napoleon wants to keep it on him for— but that’s not what he shows. Instead, he spits on the floor and flips Illya off. 

Like it’s Illya he hates. Like he can fucking fool himself. 

Napoleon tries though. He tries. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It isn't a problem. It's fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the chapter confusion y'all! I'm a fool of a writer sometimes. This chapter coming a bit earlier so that I can fix it and pretend it never happened ;p Thank you for the warm welcome and the lovely comments!

What Napoleon feared to become yet another shameful memory to haunt him for eternity, turns out to almost be easy to forget— or at least easy not to think about. 

Illya was right; captaincy is direction. Captaincy matters. Napoleon slowly feels like a person again, instead of a cog in the system. And, blessedly, it’s a fuck ton of work off the ice. 

It doesn’t solve everything. The numbness remains but is covered gloriously by the rush of the day to day. As responsibilities pile on and on, Napoleon becomes more and more able to push the darkness out of sight. He’s just too busy to think, and too exhausted to wallow when he gets back home. While Napoleon can’t say that it’s always fun, it’s _something,_ and that’s _everything_ compared to what his life used to be. 

There is only one lingering effect of that night. The matches against Illya— against the White tigers. There is something… different about them. Slightly, subtly; Napoleon doesn’t know if anyone else notices. 

Illya watches. 

A neutral gaze tracking his every move, analytical and understanding— like that night was the key to everything. Like he’s solved a puzzle, and is now just, standing on the side lines, watching it all fall apart.

Napoleon has lost all leverage. Illya knows the inside of him. The things he hides with charming smiles in front of the cameras, and with easy chirps behind them. All lost in one outburst, the protection he’s build for years— gone. He can’t rile Illya up anymore. The insults keep falling flat: words that used to infuriate him just roll smoothly off his back. 

Napoleon feels powerless. 

Illya regards him, says nothing, and skates away. 

It all comes to a head when he initiates the first fight. 

He’s just so fucking frustrated. Illya has taken away the one thing that kept him going in the murk of nothing. And yes, being a captain helps, but he’s so desperate for the thrill of _them._

So when he can’t get Illya to act like he’s supposed to, he does the only thing he can think of. 

He barely gets one fist against Illya’s jaw before he’s dragged against the boards. The referee blows a shrill whistle but it is drowned out by his heart thundering against his chest. He wonders if Illya can feel it beating underneath his hands. 

There is movement besides them; one of the White Tigers attempting to break them up. But Illya blocks Napoleon off from the rest from the world, crowding in until he’s the only thing Napoleon can see. There is a bruise blooming on his jaw, and his eyes are finally, _finally,_ not that icy fucking blank— they’re fierce. Intense and blazing. 

But not angry. Illya isn’t angry. He’s just— there. 

“Don’t do this Solo,” Illya growls. “You’re captain now. You’re better than this. It’s over.” 

Napoleon’s stomach sinks. He wants to snap something back, his teeth are _aching_ with it. How dare Illya decide this for him? How can he judge him while Illya’s captaincy has been littered with violence from the start? 

But he’s frozen underneath Illya and there is something about their closeness that makes Napoleon deflate. He wants to— he wants to sag forward and lean against Illya’s shoulder and—

God. He’s so goddamn pathetic. 

Illya nods, and mercifully lets go before Napoleon can act upon his stupidity. The world appears around them once more, and the roar of the crowd makes it clear that the fight has not stopped with them. The whole rink has devolved into clusters of battery. Both benches have jumped on the ice and the referees are frantically trying to get some order in the chaos, their shrill whistles forming an orchestra from hell. 

Illya makes the White Tigers stop with a single barked word. Napoleon stays against the boards, breathing heavily, watching. Shame consumes him, nauseating and all consuming for a second, but then it disappears like rain drops in the ocean. The numbness has returned with a vengeance. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to stand again. Everything just feels so heavy. Time passes like molasses in his mind, sticking to every nook and cranny for what seems like an eternity. Every failure, every mistake: revisited. It would hurt, if he could feel anything at all. 

Maybe that’s why he isn’t. 

But he snaps out of it, eventually, like always. It’s _fine._ One of the referees starts directing him off the ice. Napoleon ignores the words said, but he knows by the look on his coaches’ faces that he’s out for the night. 

It’s saying something that he feels a hint of frustration about that. He’s coming back, it seems. 

When he passes the bench, one of the rookies, Simon, slaps Napoleon on his back. He’s got a black eye and a nose bleed, but his grin is proud and bright. 

“We’ll always have your back, Cap,” he says, “whatever the Russian did, we follow your lead. We know you’ll have a reason.” 

Napoleon mumbles some words of gratitude, but deep down he wants to throw up. Simon’s loyalty a buckshot of emotion; guilt, shame and hatred rushing through him like internal bleeding, draining him of life. He almost steps to the coach and hands in his resignation right then and there. Because whatever the fuck he’s doing, whatever crisis he’s having, he’s dragging his people in it. People who _trust_ him. He needs to _stop_ this. 

Illya is fucking right. 

Seems to be a fucking theme. 

———

Napoleon stops. 

He stops jabbing, he stops pushing, he stops hunkering for some kind of reaction. He just does what he has to do. He does what a captain should do. All journalists have a fucking field day theorising what they have dubbed the Truce of the Ages. Napoleon sees hundreds of versions of what could have been said between them that single moment on the ice, and none of them get it right. 

Napoleon works, tries to find the things that matter — and there _are_ , there are days where he almost feels light — but he resigns himself to a sparkless life. It is worth it, when he sees the happiness he does not feel, but can recognise in the eyes of his players after another win. It is worth it, knowing that he isn’t abusing their trust. 

It is worth it, when the next time Napoleon and Illya see each other, Illya nods with respect. 

Maybe he doesn’t need anything else. Maybe this is just good enough. Maybe it’s fine.

He just has to keep people from noticing, that he really isn’t. 

It’s harder than he thought. 

———

He sees Johnson once. The birthday of his first born, a small affair that has no alcohol and as such, has Napoleon feeling like he’s crawling inside his own skin. 

Johnson shouldn’t be worrying about him, but it only takes one look between them and Napoleon knows it would be hopeless, now, to deny that everything has gone to shit. 

He tells him about the numbness— nothing about Illya, nothing about _that_ — but he’s honest for the first time in his life that maybe just hockey, just work, isn’t enough for a happy life, and that he doesn’t fucking know what to do with that realisation—

—doesn’t fucking want to know why Illya was the one who triggered it. 

Johnson is sympathetic, makes him laugh about it all for the first time in a long time, and gives him a number of a therapist, at the end of the strange night. 

“Look,” he says gruffly, looking away like he isn’t on sure footing, but determined to push on. “You shouldn’t keep shit like that inside you, it will only fester and get worse. You gotta talk to someone who knows about this stuff, and Sofia— she’s good. Played in college, got pretty far too, so she knows the game. Got a brother in the NHL, so also knows that side of it. I went a few times myself, so if not anything else, try it sometime and see if you can pry some of my secrets out of her, will you?”

Napoleon tells him something non-committal, but after another week of endless, sickening, nothing, he makes an appointment just to feel the oncoming dread. 

He goes, between training and games, bi-weekly, slowly telling this stranger what he’d told Illya in one night. It works, and it doesn’t. He feels like he’s doing _something,_ at least, but the sessions always leave him drained, cutting deeper into him that he ever thought possible, and he finds himself almost wishing the nothing back, just for a few moments, to stop feeling like he’s digging through his brain with shovels and picks. 

It works, and it doesn’t. 

The depression is obvious, in retrospect, but a diagnosis isn’t the end station like Napoleon had hoped it would be. It’s the starting point— a diving board, to the terrifying depths of recovery. It’s too high for him, sometimes. To his own credit; it’s one hell of a jump, and it’s not once, not twice, a dozen or a thousand. They keep coming, and it never seems to get any easier. 

When Sofia tells him, delicately but straight to the point, that many of his recurring symptoms seem to be related to chronic loneliness, Napoleon doesn’t show up for two months. 

But he always ends up going back. Maybe it doesn’t really solve anything, but it’s something to do, something to tug on and see where it ends up. So Napoleon keeps going, and somehow, after almost a year or so, the world seems a little less cold, every time he steps on the ice. 

And Illya— 

Illya is different too. 

The nods have stopped. His lips twitch upward now, as much of a smile Napoleon sees on him; challenging but friendly. 

It sparks more than a punch ever would. 

Maybe this is enough. Napoleon wants it to be. 

———

The distance makes it easier. 

Napoleon can’t quite, pretend, anymore, that Sofia isn’t making a slight bit of sense. Ever since she put a word to it, he’s been forced to realise how much of the darkness swallowing him whole is just, loneliness. 

And it feels impossible— it feels _insane_. Napoleon is surrounded by people every damn second of the day. There is his team, the coaches, management, interviews, fans. He’s long accepted that little of his life is his own anymore. He’d never realised that he could be lonely while everyone seems to want a fucking piece of him. 

But Sofia makes him realise that people wanting him, is not the same as being _with_ him. Napoleon learns that being taken apart by crowds like a carcass by vultures only makes him feel like he’s being pushed further from society than being drawn into it. It’s as if giving people what they want removes Napoleon from himself. Sofia calls it masking, but Napoleon calls it breaking, privately, in his own head. Because that’s what it feels like: he’s breaking himself apart— giving a smile, a laugh, a joke, an order. But never the whole of him, never everything he is. Napoleon gives them broken pieces, because they never want more than that. 

It’s only logical, then, that his socially starved brain had attached itself so desperately to Illya. Illya, who had expected one thing from him, but had stopped expecting it the moment Napoleon asked him to. Who had allowed Napoleon just to be himself, and not only that— had listened. Had _seen_ him. 

And Napoleon knows that someone else would be capable of this too. Sofia warns him away from believing that Illya is the only one who could. 

“There will be others, when you’re ready for it,” she’d said, reassuring him more than he ever knew possible. 

But Illya lingers. 

Even besides that singular and tide-shifting moment, Illya is _more_. He’s more than just an intensely capable hockey player and, apparently, a great listener. Illya is highly responsible to his team; an amazing and selfless captain. His reputation as an aggressor has been misconstrued out his deeply protective nature. He rarely fought for himself anymore— except, of course, if it was Napoleon. 

It seems centuries ago, now. 

The last violent moment Illya had had during his captaincy, another example of his protective nature, as Napoleon had belatedly discovered what Young had said to one of the rookies of Illya’s team. 

Everyone had heard the rumours about the rookie. The industry loves to gossip even nothing is confirmed. Everyone also knows the rumours about Illya, and Young had drawn his own conclusions. His insults on the ice had framed Illya’s ability to take new and nervous players under his wing as something sexualised and inappropriate. Napoleon had almost caved Young’s skull in himself when he heard about it. Because— everyone has heard the rumours about Napoleon as well, or at least enough people have, and while he doesn’t feel ready to confirm anything in front of a cameras, his own team should fucking know better. 

So Napoleon knows the qualities Illya possesses; ones he used to be jealous of but now admires with a warmth pooling in his chest. He finds himself thinking about it all, more than is necessary. More than is appropriate. The attraction is obvious — but hell, who wouldn’t want that in their bed — but evolves further than it was. From a kick of adrenaline to break the numbness, to a listening ear when he hadn’t known he’d needed it, to the gift of mercy to stop the cycle, to a respectful smile cross the ice, to—

To everything Illya is. Everything that makes him whole, and worthy, and precious. 

Napoleon gets hints, like little presents, the few moments they see each other off the ice. Cordial, and distant, but honest. Napoleon always feels like that if he’d take a step— he might be able to make something grow. 

But on most days he knows that that is bullshit. Illya has already given him so much leniency, forgiven him for much more than he deserves. He broke Napoleon through his haze, helping still while Napoleon was literally punching him in the face. Napoleon knows to not ask for more. He’ll have to work much harder at himself before he’s even worth consideration— for anyone. 

But he lets himself imagine it, sometimes. It’s a nice fantasy to have, when the days slug together and he’s standing on the precipice of yet another diving board. 

It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t really hurt anyone at all. They are not together enough to have it even begin to be a problem. It’s just a far away appreciation of someone who crosses Napoleon’s life only occasionally, but has had more impact on it than he’ll ever be able to say. 

The distance makes possible, so Napoleon doesn’t think too much of it as he slowly falls deeper in love, eyes wide open. 

So when management calls him up and tells him that Illya has left the White Tigers and has signed with Chimera for a 5 year contract, Napoleon books an appointment right then and there in the hallway besides the conference room. 

Because all at once, it’s gonna be a fucking problem. 

———

Sofia, of course, preaches honesty. Napoleon has grown out of the urge to run and hide from her all-seeing gaze, but for a second he feels like just walking out and canceling all appointments and never coming again. Because yeah, that’s what Illya needs, his new captain to confess he’s become weirdly and obsessively in love with him in these past two years. 

Sofia frowns after dragging that thought out of him. “I wouldn’t call it obsessive. You’ve got feelings for him, yes, but as I told you before, love is an active choice and needs a certain level of interaction. So what you feel for him might be some form of infatuation, but it isn’t impeding your life, it isn’t lessening your functionality and participation with society. You are very conscious and reflective of it, and are careful not to step over any boundaries.” 

She learns forward, closing her notebook and adding earnestly, “It is not consuming you, Napoleon. You are allowed to have emotions. I believe that once it is put out in the open, whatever response it might get, it will be the interaction you need to draw it away from fantasy, and work on it within the new context.” 

“What if he—“ Napoleon shakes his head. He doesn’t know where the hell he’s going with this. “What if he is disgusted, or, I don’t know. It’s just inappropriate.” 

She nods, considering. “I can’t predict what the response will be. But don’t you think that keeping a secret like that would be the more irresponsible choice? You called me in a panic — I’m not judging you, I am merely stating your emotional response — when you learned of this news. You are emotionally compromised in this situation, it gives you fear. Do you think you’ll be able to build a healthy working relationship while worrying about hiding this secret? How would you go about that?” 

Napoleon huffs. _Check mate,_ he tells himself bitterly. 

“I don’t know,” he says instead.

“I cannot decide for you, Napoleon. I just want you to remember that keeping silent, not trusting the people with your true self, was the reason you came to me in the first place. You’ve promised yourself to let people in, and sometimes this isn’t a pretty process. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable, or even inappropriate within certain contexts. But once again, I do not know the situation. I do not know how Chimera is structured, nor Kuryakin’s inner thoughts. You are the one with the decision. I’m merely reflecting what you’ve already said yourself, in different situations.” 

Napoleon drags his hands through his hair. “But it _is_ a different situation. I cannot— He could break the contract, but it would be expensive, and he just got here. I don’t even know why he left the White Tigers, why he picked Chimera out of all the options, he can’t even be a captain here.” 

When Napoleon looks up, there is a light smile on her face. 

“There is only one person who can give you those answers, Napoleon,” she says gently. “So why not start there?” 

———

“Judy, Judy, Judy. You need to pinch me, I don’t know if this is real life anymore.” 

“It is real life, Michael, but if you need it—“

“Ouch!”

“Did that help?”

“I don’t know Judy, but I’ll continue the show as if I believe it. Because as you might have seen, dear watchers, Illya Kuryakin has been traded. This in itself is already a surprise— everyone knew his contract was drawing to a close, but we assumed they would just prolong the contract. The White Tiger’s loss of the final was clearly brought on by a series of injuries and their star player getting hit with the flu just before the match. We expected some changes, maybe the physician would be sacked for not giving them flu-shots or something, but _this_? This seems very drastic.” 

“It honestly does, but only if we assume Kuryakin didn’t get an extension directly caused by that final performance of the team. It wasn’t what we expected from the White Tigers, but the blame lay not solely on the captain. One could argue that Kuryakin was the reason they got that far at all. Take a look at the statistics, the last 6 game winning goals were either made by Kuryakin, or assisted by him. He deserves a trophy all on his own.”

“But instead, he got kicked. Or that’s what the curious birds on twitter are tweeting about. There are many theories and rumours on why Kuryakin left his first and, until now, only American team behind. We’re not going to talk about those theories, because there is something much more surprising to talk about.”

“You’d almost think we couldn’t be surprised anymore, don’t you Michael. But we can. A player like Kuryakin must have so many options to choose from. We know for a fact that at least 4 teams have interest for him to be on their roster as a captain, and we think there could be more. But Kuryakin didn’t take any of them. Kuryakin chose the last team you would have expected.”

“Chimera! Kuryakin is going to Chimera! I cannot believe it! Jesus Christ— pardon for the language but— No one saw this coming. The whole ice hockey world is on fire because the Rivalry of the Ages are now playing on the same team, and not only that: Kuryakin will have to take orders from Solo from now on.” 

“To be fair, the rivalry has doused quite a bit. There is that famous moment between Kuryakin and Solo two years ago, where Solo initiated a fight and Kuryakin shut it down. It has seemed to be the turning point between the two players. Some thought it wouldn’t last this long, but as far as we can see, the two Captains treat each other respectfully. There will always be friction on the ice, but it seems to be more like a friendly challenge now, rather than anything like it was before.” 

“You’ve got a point Judy. They have seemed to have buried the hatchet. But keeping a friendly face to someone you see only a few times a year is something quite different than spending time with them every day. There has been a lot of bloodshed between Kuryakin and Solo, figurative or otherwise, and I cannot help but think that the oncoming proximity between will open up that can of worms all over again.” 

“I think they would not have taken on the trade if there was any danger of interpersonal conflict between teammates. Kuryakin has released a statement that he’s ready for a new chapter in his life and feels that Chimera can provide him with this experience. This seems fairly bland and neutral, but Kuryakin has always been a man of little words, so I think we should see it as a good sign.”

“I am very curious how the team will develop, but I think most of the viewers are going to side with me and wait for the shoe to drop. It’s going to be interesting at the very least, and if we’re lucky, the Rivalry will rise again after all. I have to say, it was getting a bit boring without it.”

“If that’s what you want out of your ice hockey, Michael, I’d recommend switching to MMA. A fight brings some spice onto the ice, but I’m here to watch plain good games. I feel this new powerhouse will give us that. Do not forget that Solo and Kuryakin have played on the same side once before, during the Captain’s Rush, about three months before the last ice-bound conflict between them. They played electrifyingly, even for a charity game.”

“And the evening ended in a shouting match, yes, I do remember.”

“I’m going to assume that they both have grown, and that their responsibilities to the team will keep the peace going.” 

“We will soon see who is right. The first match on the schedule is coming in a mere two weeks. It’s a practice game, so it will be a good place to see this controversial duo show what they have in stock: playing as allies instead of enemies. I am definitely excited!”

“We also have to mention who Kuryakin got traded for: Gerald Young.” 

“Ah yes, you would have almost forgotten it in all the excitement, but it is a surprise trade, the center has shown lots of promise to become a consistent scorer of the team. His assists have been a point of contention, but the young star still has time to learn, and if he did, he could climb the ranks faster than he’s done so far. The general consensus is that Young might have been too good to be traded.” 

“That might be so Michael, but there is another important piece that makes a team tick. Young has been disciplined multiple times these past years for various alleged incidents. Including but not excluding; derogatory speech on and off the ice, bad inter-team relationships, anger outbursts, and even a DUI. Solo has made it clear on social media that he did not condone Young’s behaviour and would do everything within his power to correct it.” 

“Would getting him traded be within his power?” 

“I don’t think so, but tensions definitely do not go unnoticed by the coaches and management, and if a player consistently shows not to respect his captain nor the organisation’s guidelines, there will certainly be consequences. Not to mention Young’s actions are not how Chimera wants to be put in the headlines.” 

“But now they might get a whole other drama on their hands. Let’s hope the made the right choice, or if you’re looking for something more exciting, let’s hope they didn’t. That was the show for tonight, friends. We will see you again tomorrow with Judy’s Statistical Analysis Segment, also known as the SAS with Sass, at 8 pm pacific. Have a great night!” 

“We will see you soon.”

“Ouch!”

“See, still reality.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is going to come next week, probably on the actual saturday this time, but who knows with me anymore. At least it's not going to be later! I hope you've liked this twist as much as I have, and appreciate the fact that this story is waaay less angsty than it could have been, knowing me ;p. 
> 
> I love everyone who reassured me about the prequel and about following my muse to little ficlets in the meantime, you're great! I'm going to try and let my creative brain do some more free work. 
> 
> Also if anyone is interested I just wrote a kind of pilot chapter of an original fantasy story idea I've been having, so if anyone wants to check that out let me know and I'll send you a google doc link when I'm done editing it :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’ll fix it soon. He just has to _do_ it. 
> 
> Illya gets to him first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi yall! I have had A Week, but I'm recovering, hopefully. Posting this is really gonna cheer me up and make me feel less like an overheated potato. Why does summer exist.

The whole thing is highly unusual. That’s the only conclusion Napoleon dares to draw after leaving the therapist’s office. 

Only three days after the coaches informed Napoleon of Illya’s trade, the news broke to the rest of the world. It doesn’t seem to be a leak, but it sure feels like it, because suddenly journalists are everywhere and Napoleon is thrown into impromptu interviews about subjects he has no idea about. It seems like the whole world knows more about the trade than he does, and Napoleon finds himself toeing a line between confusion and frustration. No one had prepared him for this. Even if he does have some personal reasons on why this situation is tilting him off balance, the way management has handled would have been disorientating enough. 

They have a match in barely two weeks. Napoleon hadn’t known about any interest in Illya until it already happened. 

Hell, apparently Illya had already moved to Boston in preparation for the trade. Which means that Napoleon could have walked into Illya for a whole week. Maybe he did and he just plain didn’t notice. That’s something new to obsess about whenever he can’t fall asleep. 

As everything piles up on each other, Napoleon is fiercely glad that he’s called in a physical evaluation, the exact moment Illya decides to show up at the rink for the first time. He just sees a flash of blond hair and broad shoulders when the training assistant shouts his name and motions to follow. A responsible captain would have refused — a captain like Illya — and made sure he was there to smooth over the reintroductions between his team and the new player. But Napoleon feels like he’s being pulled from all angles, unable to walk straight in the damn chaos, and he selfishly takes the excuse to put some space between himself and the source of it all. 

He’ll talk to Illya soon. He’d just rather not do it while the whole team is watching, pouncing on the slightest hint of discontent. 

Napoleon had reassured them earlier that day, that he had no problem with the sudden trade. Told them honestly that Illya’s play style would be exactly what they needed to get further than the top 4, where they’d gotten stuck last year. But Napoleon could see that a few of them hadn’t taken his word for it. Even though the truce between Chimera and the White Tigers had held ever since that last altercation on the ice, some of the players had always seemed to maintain a low boiling kind of hatred for the team, Illya in particular. 

Napoleon had finally learned from Simon why they felt that way. 

“They think Kuryakin threatened you with something,” he’d said quietly, eyes down to the floor. “That he has something on you, that keeps you in line. That’s why.”

Napoleon had decided not to push Simon on the way he’d extricated himself from the ‘they’ even though Napoleon knows he’s one of the more vocal players during White Tiger games, and said, “There is nothing he’s holding over my head, except for the realisation that I wasn’t acting like a captain should be. I owe him for that. I told you guys.” 

Simon had just shaken his head and shrugged. “I’m only telling you what they think.” 

Despite the suspicion of a few players, most of the team seem to have ‘as long as he plays good and doesn’t order us around’ as a general opinion. Napoleon knows his absence might make the suspicion side larger, but he’s kind of accepted that for these first few days, no decision he’ll make will be smart in any metric. Illya just has that effect on him. 

He’ll fix it soon. He just has to _do_ it. 

Illya gets to him first.

After the evaluation, Napoleon wanders onto the rink. There are a few rookies on the ice playing skirmishes with bored volunteers of the core team, but Napoleon spots the majority lounging about on the benches. The coaches are off doing damage control with management, trying to keep the media whirlpool from going off the rails, so the team has had a bit of a break. Only one assistant trainer is frantically trying to keep some structure going, and he’s clearly given up with dragging veteran players on the ice, focusing instead on the more obedient rookies. 

Napoleon walks in and whistles sharply, raising an eyebrow at the physical representation of laziness draped all over the place. “I did not say you could stop when I was gone. Come on, four reps of the precision play exercises. Blake, put on your pads and get in the fucking goal. Next match is in two weeks and if we lose it because you forgot to take your brain with you, you’ll be doing sit ups until your soul leaves your body.” 

“Yes, Caesar,” Blake says with a cheeky salute, but he does gather his things and prepares himself for the onslaught of pucks that begin to come his way.

Napoleon makes sure the next in line for physical is actually going, and then scans around in search for— Ah. 

Illya is still in casual clothing, leaning on the padded half-wall in front of the benches. He’s looking out over the ice but talking to Sergei, one of the Russian players on the team and currently out with a knee fracture. Napoleon watches for a moment, notes the relaxed set of Illya’s shoulders and explicitly doesn’t know why his heart picks up a little bit. He takes a breath and decides to put the rest of his gear back on. That way he has a good excuse to cut the introductions short. A captain is needed on the ice after all. 

But Illya walks towards him before he even has his second skate on, and Napoleon feels gloriously and irrevocably trapped when Illya stops in front of him. There is little space between the bench and the wall anyway, so Napoleon would only have to lean forward slightly for his knees to tangle with Illya’s. 

Napoleon clears his throat. “Sorry that I wasn’t there to welcome you, but I see that you’re already making friends?” He nods towards Sergei, relieved to have an excuse to look away from the intense gaze on him. 

There is a moment of pause, but Illya huffs eventually, nodding once. “Sergei is friend. Played with him in college. Good player, has good words to say about you.” 

Napoleon forces a laugh. “I sure hope so, they know any bad press about me results in 20 laps. I have to keep my image somehow.” 

There is only silence, and Napoleon watches the joke fall flat like a plane crashing into the sea— you’d expect an explosion, but instead it just sinks, swallowed whole by something infinitely greater than itself. Napoleon realises the metaphor only works if he considers his embarrassment to be as great as the ocean. Which, in this case, would be accurate. 

“Good to know,” Illya says, and for the life of him, Napoleon can’t figure out if it’s sincere or Illya’s stoic version of banter. He’s completely lost. 

“Well, I don’t know if you took your gear with you but you’re welcome to join us on the ice. The faster we can get you integrated, the easier the next game is going to go.” Napoleon begins to tie the laces of his first skate, and then puts on his second while letting his mouth does what it wants. “Hell, we haven’t played against each other for a few months. We could start with splitting up the teams, one for me and one for you— though maybe hold off on ordering them around. They’re still a bit touchy on the whole captain thing. Some of them think you’re gonna lead a mutiny. If you do, at least have the respect to wear a pirate hat. I will concede to power if you wear the correct outfit, I promise.” 

Napoleon finds himself grinning at the end, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s finally lost his mind, or if— he doesn’t really have another option. He looks up to gauge Illya’s response to his insanity, and Illya is just— watching him, listening without any indication of emotion in his face. It reminds Napoleon way too much of that other time he’d lost his damn mind at Illya, only instead of inane jokes, he’d been insulting him. 

“I don’t have my gear,” Illya says. “I’m here to talk to—“ 

“Kuryakin!” someone calls out from across the ice. “They’re ready for you!”

Illya sighs quietly. The relaxation in his body language is completely gone. Napoleon doesn’t know if the prospect of whatever conversation he’s here for caused it, or if Napoleon had done that damage all by himself. 

“Ah,” Napoleon says, and he’s _finally_ done with his skates. He stands up. Illya steps aside to let him through and their arms brush as he passes. “Don’t let the sharks bite you too much. We need you whole, Kuryakin.” 

Napoleon slaps Illya on the shoulder in a way that he hopes seems companionable and within the bounds of a captain-player relationship, but he feels Illya flinch at the touch, so that’s that proven wrong. 

“I won’t,” Illya replies, but he sounds almost hesitant, like he isn’t sure if what he’s saying is true. 

That makes Napoleon turn on his heel and say, very seriously, “You’re on the team now, so if you’ve got any trouble with management, let me know. Wrangling them into some semblance of sensibility is my number one responsibility as the captain of this team, so don’t be afraid to complain. Everyone does.” 

Illya stills. Napoleon only realises his gaze is boring into Illya’s eyes when Illya meets it and nods solemnly— almost with an air of surprised gratitude. There is something there— something Napoleon can’t otherwise classify than _nerves,_ that bleeds into Illya’s tense expression. Like he’d been keeping it under lock and key until something in Napoleon’s speech broke his hold. 

Napoleon almost blurts out, _what is going on,_ when the same voice interrupts them again. 

“Kuryakin!”

“I have to go,” Illya says gruffly. His jaw twitches like he’s gritting his teeth. 

Before Napoleon can stop him — grab him by the shoulders and shake him to tell him what is _wrong_ — Illya side steps him smoothly, and walks out of the rink. 

Napoleon lets his team draw him on the ice, and his body takes over the routine of training, but his mind is miles away, cataloging everything Illya did and said and trying to make sense of any of it. 

Sofia was right, as usual: he does need to know the answers to the questions roaming around in his head. But maybe it’s not out of some selfish plot to figure out if confessing to Illya will spell anything but disaster. Maybe he has to know out of a responsibility to his team— which Illya now miraculously belongs to — to try and help with whatever troubles them, certainly when it’s related to Chimera, as it seems to be the case. 

———

His hair is just damp enough that the bite of the evening chill spreads to his neck and shoulders. The curse of the after-training shower, though it beats stinking up his car again. Napoleon pushes his hands into his jacket in an attempt to hold on to some warmth and is fully ready to drive back home and crawl under a heap of blankets, when he sees a shadow leaning against the outer walls of the training rink.

Illya is cloaked in shadow. His head is tilted towards the floor and his shoes scuff the ground as he alternates from one leg to the other. 

“That can’t be comfortable,” Napoleon says. He curves his path towards Illya without deciding to, until he’s close enough to see Illya jump a little at his words, like Napoleon interrupted him from deep thoughts. “You got anywhere to go to?” 

Illya nods. “I have place.” 

“Need directions or something? Or do you need a ride?” 

Illya looks at him for a moment, pensive, and shakes his head. “No. I know how Uber works.” 

“Yeah, of course,” Napoleon says. He swallows when the silence lasts a little too long. The impulse to fill the gap with unnecessary blabbering almost kicks in, but it’s cut short by a deep sigh. 

Illya pushes himself off the wall and straightens his shoulder a little bit. In the white light of the industrial street lights that litter the parking lot, his determined face seems painted in black and light. “I was waiting... for someone.” 

“You could wait inside, if you want to,” Napoleon offers. 

Illya’s jaw twitches and he says deliberately slow, “I was waiting for you.”

The cold of the night is nothing compared to the ice that digs itself through Napoleon’s spine. There are hundreds of horrible reasons why Illya might have been waiting for him, but Napoleon latches onto the needle in the needlestack that would pierce him the most. Illya didn’t say it, but Napoleon can’t help but hear it anyway. _We need to talk._

And there is only one subject Napoleon can think of that couldn’t be taken care of in some conference room. There is only one thing Illya would have to steel himself for like this— go through the dramatics of waiting in the fucking dark. 

Illya nods towards the other side of the parking lot. It takes a moment before Napoleon understands what wants. 

“It’s cold,” Illya says, by way of explanation. He sets off into the darkness, his gait too stiff to pass for casual. 

Napoleon follows, after one endless second of hesitation— it would be so easy to ignore this. To run away from this offer of honest communication and just bathe in denial. Maybe Illya would take it as a sign to not push further, just to focus on the hockey and let the rest be. 

But with Sofia’s voice in one ear, and his own in the other, Napoleon can’t do anything else but keep walking. He cannot make the same mistake over and over again. He doesn’t want to keep hiding, not sharing, not _trusting_ , for his entire life. He has a responsibility as a captain, both to the team and Illya, to push through this moment and be honest when he needs to be. 

He has a responsibility to himself, to learn how to be. 

So Napoleon follows Illya as they walk towards that very same bar where Napoleon had gotten them in this situation in the first place. 

Illya leads them to the back of the bar. It’s a calm evening for a Friday, but besides the Chimera team and staff, the rest of Boston has better places to start their weekend. Napoleon had ordered their team to take a rest, and it seems like they have listened. Except for a few staff members, Napoleon sees no one he recognises. Illya and him are the only ones breaking his self imposed rule. 

When Illya takes a seat in the booth farthest away from people, Napoleon sits down across from him, keeping as much room between them as he can. He cannot make this conversation any less uncomfortable for the both of them, but he can at least respect Illya’s personal space. 

One of the bartenders brings Napoleon’s usual and Napoleon goes through the motions of small talk when Illya orders his own. 

“Next time tell us at the bar,” she lectures Illya playfully. “Regulars get their drinks brought to them because we can read their minds and know what they want. Rookies gotta show us their secrets for a while, it’s the way the magic works.” 

Napoleon chuckles at her joke, not because he finds it particularly funny in this moment but just for something to do. 

“I will,” Illya says, so solemnly that the waitress doesn’t seem to know what to do with it. 

The interaction grates on Napoleon, but he knows himself well enough that everything will until this is over. The waiting almost seems to be more tortuous than the action itself. The ice in his whiskey is starting to slowly melt has Napoleon tightens his hands around the glass, but Illya still doesn’t say anything, even when the waitress has long gone. A drop of condensation dews on the edge of Napoleon’s glass and slides over his fingertips. 

Something inside Napoleon snaps. He draws in a breath and starts, “Illya—“ 

But Illya interrupts him. “You have questions,” he states. 

He cuts right through the words almost rolling of Napoleon’s tongue— _I am sorry for the position I put you in. I am sorry that you had to learn about this. But I promise you, my personal regard for you will not influence the way I treat you on the team. I don’t ever want to make you feel uncomfortable, and you have to tell me when I do anything you don’t want me to do. Anything at all, Illya. I want to make this work—_

Napoleon doesn’t say any of that. He just stares at Illya while the world does a one-eighty around him. 

“About the trade,” Illya prompts, frowning slightly now. 

Napoleon takes a deep breath. Everything about this situation suddenly falls into a whole other context and he manages to pull a wry grin out of his ass. “I’m not going to doubt your decision, Kuryakin, but yeah, can’t say I expected this move.”

Illya’s frown disappears into blankness again. “You have questions. Ask them.” 

Napoleon nods. He lets himself think for just a moment on what the hell he actually wanted to know before his paranoid theories got way out of hand. “They did not tell me about any of this, until the deal was already through,” Napoleon begins, “Normally, I get a heads up whenever they’re looking at someone, ask my perspective for the team. You know how it goes. So, any particular reason for that?”

“Yes. I asked them not tell. Because—“ Illya catches the face Napoleon can’t help but make and he interrupts himself. “Not only you, everyone. I could not risk going wrong. It had to go through.” 

“I wouldn’t have said no, you know. If I’d known. You must know that I think you’re an amazing player, can’t deny statistics nor what I’ve seen with my own eyes. I would base my opinion on what I’d think would be best for the team, not based on any personal issue.” Napoleon waves a hand between them, and adds, “Besides, I’d been under the impression that those weren’t… there, anymore.”

The tense lines around Illya’s eyes lighten up a little and he nods. “I know” 

“Okay. Good,” Napoleon shakes his head a little. A pressure in his chest dissipates—relief, maybe. “I’m glad that we’re—“ he catches himself and says instead, “I’m glad.” 

Napoleon looks away, clears his throat. From his periphery he sees the frown on Illya’s face return. “So if it isn’t that,” Napoleon begins carefully, “why did you—“ 

“— I’m coming out this year.”

Napoleon almost full body flinches, which would be about the worst reaction he could have had. But he freezes just in time, his eyes latched on the vague shape that is Illya in the corner of his eye. He’s staring down his glass like it’s about to kill him. He looks— apprehensive. Afraid. 

“I don’t have choice,” Illya says, almost apologetic. Like he has to have a reason, but still is sorry, somehow. “Someone broke in my home, took laptop, phone. It could leak, any day. So, had to hurry.” 

“That is…” Napoleon says, trailing off. Lost. “I don’t understand, what does have to do with the trade? Not that— that it isn’t important.” 

Napoleon winches at himself, but Illya doesn’t seem to notice his idiotic bumbling. 

“Contract with White Tigers was running out,” he says, “Visa too. I tried to get them to sign new one. Different one. That I could not be silenced again, about this. But they, management, did not like. They wanted to, like Americans say, swipe under rug. Sue when it leaks. Hope for best.” Illya shrugs, but his lips turn with a bitter twist. “Not going to work anyway, and I’m tired. Lying all the time. All those little kids who think this sport isn’t good them because all of us keeping mouth shut. Some forced, some just scared. I’m tired of being scared.” 

Napoleon has been turning to Illya like a moth to a flame all throughout Illya’s earnest monologue, but he only notices his own movements when he’s staring Illya right in the face. Every facet of exhaustion, fear, frustration and determination so viscerally laid before him that Napoleon almost reaches out to touch it— to brush it away for something lighter. 

Napoleon keeps his hands carefully pressed against the bar top and just-- listens. 

“But if everyone knows,” Illya is saying, “I cannot go back to Russia. No team would take me. I needed visa, long contract with organisation that would not stop me, telling the world.” Illya takes a deep breath, shuddering with it. 

Napoleon swallows in the sudden silence. Everything that had bothered him about the abrupt trade starts to make sense.“Chimera was the only one, the only one who agreed to those terms?”

“One of few, but best option of all. I have control about my story now.” 

“Shit,” Napoleon says. “That’s fucked up man, you shouldn’t have to trade your team and position for security and the right to speak for yourself. Jesus.”

Illya snorts, and downs his drink. 

“They forced you to give up on being a captain, out of their ignorance.” Napoleon shakes his head and looks upward. “God, the world is a true trashheap, isn’t it?” 

Illya shakes his head. “Not only reason. I do not think I am good captain, for now.” 

Napoleon eyes snap back to Illya’s face, trying to read his expression without much luck. “About what Young said.”

Illya tenses, eyes trained on a point just besides Napoleon. 

“I know he’s not the only one thinking it—“ Napoleon cuts himself off when Illya flinches, trying to reassure him by hurrying to say, “You were right to kick his ass, I almost did too. But he didn’t get to you, right? Tell me you didn’t give up the C because of that. You shouldn’t listen to that bullshit—“

Illya has stopped staring into nowhere and meets Napoleon’s eyes, the strain in his posture draining at once. His lips twitch in a half smile and he huffs a breath. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head, “Not it. I’m never listen to people like him.”

“Good,” Napoleon says, “If anyone else on the team dares to do the same, there are going to be consequences. I don’t need that shit on my team.” 

Illya pauses, regarding him with a hint of gratitude that’s almost too much. Napoleon feels a confession burn on his tongue — _not because of you, or, not back then. It was for me_ — but this is Illya’s moment. He doesn’t need to hear Napoleon’s story now, besides— he probably knows already. Just one other ‘secret’ to add to the pile, hundreds of rumours dusting in the corners of the industry— only Illya is going to be the first one to bring light to it all. Napoleon is suddenly caught with the realisation that this is really going to happen. There is finally going to be someone out, and he’s quietly, selfishly, so damn relieved that he doesn’t have to be the first. 

So, it might be respectful to let this conversation be about Illya, but it could also be incredibly cowardly. Because what do you say to someone who’s forced to out himself, when you could do it voluntarily any day? _‘Yeah good luck with that, I’m gonna stay here and watch the fall out from a safe distance, thanks for taking the bullet.’_

Though, that might be an oversimplification. Napoleon really should look into his contract and see what he’s even allowed to say. He’s just been very successfully not thinking about it for so long— much to Sofia’s eternal frustration. 

Seems like, once again, Illya is going to put a stop to that. 

Napoleon shakes himself out of his thoughts just in time for Illya to pick the conversation back up. 

“I think my life is going to be chaos soon. It already is, little bit. Leading team while in storm... not good idea.” 

He’s got a point, Napoleon thinks, and files it neatly away as an argument for ‘not coming out’ to give Sofia next time he sees her. He really can’t do that to the team, right?

“And also, what you said that night— or yelling. You did have point.”

What night? Surely not—

But Illya is half way into a smile, nodding at whatever look Napoleon is sending him. “Yes, surprising, no? But you did yell more smart into me. Not great way to learn a lesson, but it worked. So thanks.” He shrugs, like he didn’t just turn Napoleon’s whole guilt complex upside down. 

“My life was the game and the game was my life,” Illya says, “Not too good for some, not even me. Ever since that night, I tried to— to be more. But being captain, it is easy to let consume everything. And with not being out, keeping secrets is not good for relationship. So I stop being ‘ice addict’, if I didn’t make change. Just being player, instead of leader, is some weight of shoulders.” 

Illya takes a sip of his drink and then smiles fully, a laugh on his tongue. “Besides, I have 5 years to marry American, I need time for that. Much time.” 

His eyes invite a chirp, but Napoleon can’t— what the _fuck._ All this time, he’s thought that night to have been the blemish he’d always have to carry upon their— friendship, if he was lucky. That he’d always have to be confounded but eternally grateful for Illya’s undeserved mercy. The forgiveness that had stopped a violent grudge in it’s tracks. 

The possibility that he’d even had the _slightest_ of positive influence on Illya’s life. He— God. 

“I—“ Napoleon clears his throat. “I’m still sorry for yelling at you, then. And what I said about your mother, of course.” 

Illya laughs and claps his shoulder. “No, no. It was clever. You won— with few words.” Illya shakes his head. “When I was young, that made me angry, I was so angry. But maybe more at myself, for losing. Distracted, by words that don’t matter. Because _you_ said it. After the game, it became habit.” Illya turns somber suddenly, his eyes a bit unfocused by memory or alcohol or both. There is something in his expression that Napoleon can’t read, but it’s gone in a flash. 

Illya presses his lips together before saying, with an undercurrent of pure determination. “I never want anger to become habit again.” 

Napoleon pushes out a long breath, shaking his head and nodding at the same time. “Yeah, me too. Let’s toast to that.” 

Their glasses clink, and Napoleon realises that his had gone empty a long time ago. 

“You want anything?” Napoleon asks, and waves for a waitress to approach. 

Illya looks at his empty beer with an offended look and nods. 

A comfortable pause in the conversation lingers between them while the waitress takes their orders and reappears with the drinks within a minute— they’re the only ones left in the bar. It would make Napoleon feel guilty if he didn’t know that the owner liked to keep the doors open for hockey regulars out of some team-loyalty. He doesn’t make use of it often, but he doesn’t want this conversation to end yet. 

“Hey,” Napoleon says, drawing Illya’s attention back to him from wherever he’d been thinking about. “Thank you for telling me all this. If you need anything, you let me know, alright?” 

He hopes that Illya knows how much he means it, but judging by the way he nods solemnly, he does. 

“Of course, Captain.” Illya makes a face. “Sounds strange.” 

Napoleon huffs. It really does. A younger, more idiotic, version of him might have delighted in having a rival be forced to respect him as superior, but he isn’t that person anymore, and Illya is, blessedly, not a rival anymore either. 

“You don’t have to,” he says, “only the rookies do it— besides Simon, but he’s the eternal rookie, don’t let him fool you.” 

Illya raises an eyebrow. “I am rookie, technically.” 

“Illya—“ 

“No, no,” Illya waves his protests away, a smile on his lips, “I need something, maybe not captain, but something. Sign of respect.” Illya looks away like he’s deep in thought, but Napoleon sees a glint of mischief in the twitch of his lips. 

“How about this,” he says after a moment, when Napoleon is half way through his drink and almost started hoping he’d give up on the joke. 

“Well, what’s it going to be?” Napoleon invites. 

If lips could twitch with smugness, that’s exactly what is happening on Illya’s face right now. “Cowboy.”

Napoleon sighs, in the eternal unwritten rules of nicknames, protesting won’t get him far. “I feel like refusing is only going to make it stick more.”

The twitch evolves into a tiny grin that’s quickly hidden behind a glass. “Correct, Cowboy,”

“This is unfair,” Napoleon faux-complains. “I’ve got nothing to call you.” 

Illya tilts his head, humming. “First team, when I was very tiny, they called me Red Peril.” 

“You, tiny? Impossible.” Napoleon says, and is entirely too satisfied when Illya barks a laugh. It must be the alcohol. 

“My mother has pictures,” Illya says, “but I burned them. Nickname all proof left. It was joke. Tiny boy could not be dangerous. Until I was not tiny any more. It was not joke after that, more fact.” 

“Bit of a mouthful,” Napoleon muses, laughing under his breath. “Peril. Just, Peril.”

Illya’s lips twitch up. “Yes. Works.” 

“For that I almost have to pick a new one until I find one you actually hate.”

Illya full on laughs and claps Napoleon on his shoulder. 

“Why are we doing this again?” Napoleon says, trying to distract himself from Illya’s hand burning through the fabric of his shirt. 

“No more questions, Cowboy,” Illya says wisely, and squeezes his shoulder. With his other hand, he pushes Napoleon’s glass into his hand. “Drink.”

“Is that an order?” Napoleon raises a suggestive eyebrow— and then realises he might be getting a little too drunk for this. 

Illya just laughs again, taking it like the joke it should have been. “Old habit,” he says, and the mirth in his eyes makes Napoleon entirely too warm. 

He drinks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another twist :D :D, please send all screaming to the dooblydoo below, the people responsible for your distress will definitely receive an investigation and a fair trial, found guilty for Angst Crimes. Lemme know what you liked! 
> 
> For those interested in the original pilot chapter, my Week kind of sabotaged me on that. I'm def gonna get back to y'all on that as soon as I have time for it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kind friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! The last week has been insanity. I don't know if you saw but I posted my good omens fic, and uhm, they liked it??? It was amazing and overwhelming. 
> 
> A few folks subscribed to me because of it so for Good Omens Folk: this is my saturday posting wip! You're welcome to join in, but if not, Good Omens fic should be coming up eventually. Y'all have tempted me successfully. I just gotta make sure I don't go off posting schedule with this in the meantime ;D 
> 
> For the rest of you, hi! I'm still on schedule with the prequel, but feel free to yell at me in the comments to motivate me. I just have a few chapters left! Ahhhh.

Illya apparently meant it when he said ‘control over his story,’ because when Napoleon wakes up the next day, he’s got 6 emails and he’s been added to a Slack filled with people he’s only ever spoken to after he’d done something wrong in front of cameras. 

Operation ‘coming out’ seems to be an orchestra diligently conducted by a woman named Driss Rossforth, and Napoleon doesn’t recognize her name until he sees her profile picture and his mind goes unbiddenly to _The Crow._

The Crow: a long haired shadow just beside the cameras, sharp eyes watching for any wrong twitch. She’s the Chimera-organisation’s public relations officer, though it has been rumoured she’d started her career as a fierce defence lawyer. In any case, her infrequent appearances and the pitch black hair that dusts her shoulders, made her more myth than woman, for the players. She tends to keep behind the scenes, sending out her army of minions to deal with the players face to face. Any player knew that if The Crow appeared, it meant there was a catastrophic bone to pick. 

Napoleon’s various drunken scandals had never really reached her standards. Her disapproval came in over-caffeinated interns who tried so hard to match their boss’ intensity that it was almost adorable. Besides a silent presence at board meetings, Napoleon had never interacted with the Crow — Miss Rossforth — personally, except for one memorable occasion. 

After the first and last time Napoleon ever dropped his gloves at Illya, Napoleon had been sent to her office, his head still cottoned in everlasting nothingness. It had almost been ironic— going to the most terrifying person in all of Chimera, the one time he hadn’t been able to feel anything at all. 

She’d poured him a perfect black coffee, and stared him down for a long moment. If she noticed that he wasn’t shaking in his boots, she didn’t mention it. 

“Now,” she’d said finally, “Are we quite done, Mister Solo?” 

She’d said it like they’d had a whole conversation, like they’d discussed Napoleon’s behaviour, his growing desperation for Illya’s attention, his humiliating outbursts when that failed, his suffering hockey performance. But in the space of a second, Napoleon had realised that they’d had. That she didn’t have to utter a word. The silence had been a discussion all on its own. 

“Yes,” Napoleon had said, and found that he meant it. 

Rossforth had nodded, and dismissed him. 

Napoleon isn’t quite sure if he’s relieved or apprehensive about the fact that she’ll be the one planning out one of the most crucial moments in Illya’s life. 

And a plan there is. 

It seems like ‘Kuryakin informs Solo of the situation’ had been an important checkbox on about half a dozen to-do lists, and it’s completion has released the horses onto to the tracks. It is in fact a race— not a race against time but a race against whoever got their hands on Illya’s private information. Even if the thief could be a mere garden-variety burglar, no one within the Operation wants to gamble on that chance. As Napoleon reads through the long backlogs of discussions, the general split seems to be about timing. The more time they give Illya to integrate with the team, the less chance the news will affect team performance, which will in turn worsen public response. Napoleon wants to protest this insinuation — he’s going to make damn sure no one will have an issue with Illya on his fucking watch — but he also has to admit time will aid the process. The guys are already holding to some stupid assumptions, and adding a new one before solving the first isn’t going to help matters. 

But the drawback of time is risk: risk that it’s going to leak before they’re ready; risk that the thief will sell proof to the highest bidder and they’ll be caught unprepared. Napoleon feels uncomfortable as they blithely discuss the contents of the laptop. Nothing scandalous, they say, no nude pictures, no racy conversations. They talk about it like it’s a lucky break, a relief to not have to deal with on top of everything else, instead of very private information about an actual fucking human. 

Napoleon almost calls Illya to— to do what? Tell him that his personal life is being picked apart by a hoard of strangers? He must know already. If this is what ‘control over his story’ meant, Napoleon doesn’t want to know what the other teams were planning. 

In their defence, any decision has to be vetted and approved by Illya. It was Illya who pushed to talk to Napoleon one on one, while the Operation were quite vocally offering to chaperone the conversation. Christ, what a nightmare that would have been. 

But after wading through a gigabyte of information, Napoleon finally finds a time table. As of now, the coming out will not happen until Rossforth says the word. They’re not given a date yet, but she promises enough time to show that Illya belongs in this team, and too little time for a media company to build a solid release story. 

‘If they leak it without preparation and research, we’ll be able to sue them and take it down before it can spread,” Rossforth explained in a fucking powerpoint presentation of all things. ‘And without pictures or explicit proof, they’ll have little motivation to. If the information is sold, it will be written as an exposé, one we will undercut before it releases.’

Napoleon closes his laptop at that. He knows enough. His responsibility lies with the team. He has to make it cohesive enough to withstand the firestorm of the press. 

Napoleon pushes himself out of bed and rushes through his morning routine with fervour. He’s got his own operation now, plans spilling in and out of a pulsing mess of thoughts. He grins around his toothbrush and stands before the mirror, he’s met with a brightness to his face that almost makes him drop the damn thing. 

His heart thunders— oh. Okay. He hasn’t felt this exhilarated since— since the Captain’s Rush. _‘Not obsessive’, my ass_ , Napoleon thinks. It can’t be healthy that Illya’s presence having such an effect on him. 

He continues his routine a little more subdued, but there is nothing he can do to the way everything feels like it has finally fit into place. Like the darkness can’t touch him anymore. And he knows that that is a dirty lie his brain likes to tell himself sometimes. One he’d believe and then crash even harder when it inevitably ends. But god, it feels so _good._

Napoleon sighs and takes his phone out of his pocket. He dials blindly, using his other hand to pour himself some cereal. 

“Sofia Meerman’s Office, how can I help?” 

“Hi Sasha,” Napoleon says, “I’m calling to change my appointments from monthly to weekly. There are certain events in my life at the moment that will trigger emotional swings I am not fully prepared to handle.” 

“Ah, yes,” Sasha says, her fingers tapping away. “Sofia kept some space for you open, just in case. I’ll put you down on Wednesday evenings, does that work with your schedule?” 

“It does until the end of this month,” Napoleon says. “I’ll talk to her about it.” 

“You’re in the system,” Sasha says.

“Thank you.” 

Napoleon sighs again, shaking his head a little. He takes a bite of his healthy-oatsy-stuff with a handful of lucky charms thrown in, and ends up feeling ironically adult about the whole thing. 

———

CAPTAIN RIVALRY TURNED MIRACLE FORCE, KURYAKIN AND SOLO BETTER TOGETHER THAN APART

It was only a practice game, but one could have mistaken it for a semi final, judging from the sold out seats in the Chimera Stadium. The press was thoroughly represented as well, everyone watching as Kuryakin and Solo hit the ice as allies for the first time since the Captain’s Rush. 

A few hopefuls theorised their reunion to be that same electrifying hockey they had shown that charity game, but we always arrived back at the alleged conflict between them during the celebrations after. It is true that the two men have dialled down the rivalry enormously since then, but we could not take the Captain’s Rush performance as prophecy. It was a charity event, after all. 

But maybe we should have, because what we saw today definitely didn’t look like a practice match, and if it reminded one of the Captain’s Rush, it was because Kuryakin and Solo played even better than they did then. 

The masses who were watching for the gloves the drop were thoroughly disappointed, but all together no one should be discontented by the sportsmanship we saw during this game. It is clear that Solo did not hesitate in his role of Captain for a second, despite the history between him and this new player. Besides his activity on social media— where Kuryakin was pulled in the usual team pictures and videos by Solo himself — during the game it was him who sat beside Kuryakin on the bench when the rest of the team seemed more eager to ignore him. There were certainly still a few grudges between Chimera and the ex-White Tiger Captain, but none of them originated from Solo himself. And even these frigid teammates seemed to warm up to their infamous rookie throughout the game. 

The turning point was half way through the first period. One could say that respect of a hockey player is earned through a goal, but then we’d be forgetting the magical properties of an assist. And this is what Kuryakin is known for. Everything started to fall into place when Kuryakin began to find Solo’s position blindly, serving the puck like they’ve been playing together for years and years. Or at the least, Kuryakin must have binged tapes of Solo’s play for however long he knew he’d be traded, because what we saw that game was too perfect to be accidental. 

Solo made sure to trap Kuryakin in the following celebrations, as the goal count jumped up to 3-1 as the second period ended. The last period Illya served the puck for other team mates as well, notably providing Simon Powell a goal when he could have scored himself. 

But the clear star of this game was Napoleon Solo with a hat trick, waltzing completely over the opposition, entirely made possible by his perfect dynamic with Kuryakin. Readers who know Solo for the showy plays that had made famous in his youth, might expect him to ride these selfless assists of Kuryakin to the top. But the cameras crucially caught his look of frustration when Kuryakin once again gave him the puck when he could have likely scored himself instead. Eagle-eyed fans have giffed and captioned the moment, claiming that Solo yelled “Next one is yours!” at Kuryakin. This is supported by the fact that Kuryakin attempted a shot within the next minute, that was sadly caught by the goalie. 

Have we been witness to the creation of an unstoppable partnership? Could we ever have known that the violent rivalry we have followed for years, had the makings of a selfless dynamic that we rarely see in the NHL? We might never know the answer. But what we do know is that we are privileged to experience this kind of turn around, and there might be a lesson to be learned for any hockey player on or off the ice. 

Maybe we are wasting our time with rivalries, when we could be following Kuryakin and Solo’s example, and turn a grudges into gold. May they become the greatest partnership the hockey world has ever seen. 

———

Napoleon isn’t quite sure how he feels when he walks into the chop shop, a bag with Thai take away in one hand, and a boba tea in the other. He pushes the door open with his shoulder, the wind chimes clanging against the glass as he does so, despite telling Gaby for almost a year now that that isn’t how wind chimes are supposed to work. 

But Gaby very good at very loudly not listening to anything he says. 

There is a muffled sound from underneath the car in the middle of the shop, and Napoleon chuckles despite himself. He searches for a place to put the food down, but there isn’t a surface completely covered in tools or debris. In the end he finds an empty crate that he turns upside down to use as a makeshift table. 

“Are you ever going to throw this shit away?” Napoleon asks, scrutinising the mess on the actual dinner table. One Napoleon had actually bought for her birthday, with the intention that they’d actually be able to eat like adults for a change. So far, it hasn’t been successful. 

Gaby rolls out from under the car, her hair up in a bun and tied back in a dirty piece of flannel. She’s got black grime all over her hands and her lipstick has made a journey over her cheeks. Napoleon looks down at her and feels the world fall away for a second, everything stressing him, or exciting him, quiets down in a sudden and fond calm. Stability in friendship, Christ. Sofia maybe has a point. 

He suppresses the urge to hug Gaby — he’s tried many times, and learned that there is a precise window between tipsy and nostalgic that make Gaby appreciative of hugs of any kind, other than those it’s a death sentence — and instead holds out a hand to pull her up. 

She raises an eyebrow and says, “You’re feeling sappy, aren’t you, you would never let your precious skin touch my dirty hands otherwise.” 

“Shut up and take it,” Napoleon says, and luckily, Gaby does. 

She dusts herself off — grime spreading artfully all over her overalls — and checks her watch. “So what did she say this time?” 

It is true that he tends to bring food to the shop just after a therapy session but there is no reason to be so obvious about it. Napoleon swats her, but answers honestly anyway. “That I should spend more time with you.” 

Gaby aborts her single minded mission to the food to look up at Napoleon with a frown. “She told you to hang out with your car mechanic.”

“No, you idiot,” Napoleon says, and steals the bag from her dirty, dirty hands, “She told me to focus on friendships outside of my work, as that is now a source of instability, so I need to rely on things that won’t be affected.” He doges Gaby attempt to grab the bag, instead holds it’s high above his head and says, “Wash your hands first, you trashcan, you’re gonna ruin Boonsri’s hard work.” 

Gaby rolls her eyes but walks to the wash table. “We’re friends now huh? I thought last time you said you’d never be willingly in the same place as me.” 

“That’s because you tried to paint Rosetta hot pink.” 

“Still think it would look badass.” 

“In your fucking dreams.”

Gaby laughs and holds up her palms for Napoleon to inspect. “See, all clean now. Can we please start eating, I haven’t had anything since the morning.” 

“Now, who’s fault is that.”

“Yours,” Gaby says seriously. “You’re the one who’s always wanting lunch.” 

“That does not mean you cannot get it yourself when I’m not around.” 

“I don’t see why.” 

“I’m going to ignore the direction this conversation is taking and instead focus on the food. This curry is amazing isn’t it? The colours are positively vibrant. They’re almost as red as the fucking walls of this place.” 

“Don’t judge my style, Solo, accept that you’re just blinded by your riches and indoctrinated in the cult of monochrome and ‘minimalism’.” She says it with a shudder, and Napoleon finds himself coughing up a piece of chicken in his laughter. 

They quiet for a while, truly appreciating Boonsri’s usual delicious fare, but when the boxes begin to empty, Gaby nudges her shoulder against him and sighs. 

“In all seriousness, I won’t mind if you pass through more often. If the stability of car grease and motor oil helps combats whatever hockey drama you’re wrapped up this time.” 

“Thank you, Gabs.” Napoleon nudges back, and then chuckles at a thought. “I think you’d be actually interested in it this time.”

“Solo, you’ve tried to get me into that stupid game hundreds of times, what in God’s name do you think will ever convince me slapping a plastic thing with another plastic thing will ever be intere—“

“Illya has joined my team.” 

“What.” 

“Yeah.” 

Gaby blinks at him for a moment, and then doubles forward in laughter, tears in her eyes. “I take it all back, that is—“ she coughs, almost unable to breathe— “the most _interesting_ thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“I think Sofia didn’t mean being bullied about my hockey instability would help matters.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” Gaby breathes, trying to hide her laughter behind her hand. It isn’t very successful. 

“Nah, I’m joking,” Napoleon says, shrugging, unsure if he’s lying or not. He just wants this to be normal, and Gaby teasing is normal. So: “Tease all you want. It’s a nice chance to whatever my brain has been doing”

“Internally screaming whenever your sweetheart looks at you?” 

“Shut up.” 

“Oh no you’ve opened Pandora’s box motherfucker. How the hell are you surviving this? You’ve been pining for this fucker ever since I knew you.” 

“Safe to say I’m not.” 

“So it’s a disaster?”

Napoleon leans back and looks up to the ceiling with a properly dramatic sigh. “No. It isn’t. That is the worst part. I— We—“ He closes his eyes. “It’s the most beautiful hockey I’ve ever played Gaby. We just— connect on the ice like I’ve never experienced before. The way he—“ 

Something swats his head.

“If you are sneaking in any hockey terminology I will paint the back of your eyes hot pink.” 

“Okay okay,” Napoleon says. “I wasn’t trying to. He’s just— I can’t explain it.”

“I’ll give it a try, hmmm? How about this: The far-off sun of your life is even more radiant up close?” 

“Yeah, I guess that works,” Napoleon says, trying very hard to banish the thought of Illya radiantly smiling at him.

There is a pause, and then, mercilessly, Gaby asks, “And you haven’t told him?”

Napoleon puts his hands over his eyes. 

“Isn’t that like, against some code or some shit? Can you just keep something secret like that? You work together almost every day, change together even, shouldn’t he know?” 

“If you want me to drink heavily tonight, continue that line of questioning,” Napoleon warns, muffled. 

“Fine, fine. I assume you’ve thought about it from every angle.” 

“I have.” Napoleon stops hiding and looks Gaby’s long-suffering face as earnestly as he can. “The situation is complicated,” he tries. 

Gaby rolls her eyes. “It always fucking is. Bet you’re missing one angle though.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know. I just know you always miss something. Because you’re an idiot.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Your therapist prescribed me. Suck it up.” 

———

The first time Napoleon met Gaby was about a year in his therapy experiment. It was also a few months after Sofia dropped the bomb about him being a hermit, and Napoleon still didn’t quite know what to do with that. He had… friends, they were just always vaguely hockey flavoured. The ones who were easy to talk to at official events, who didn’t demand consistent contact from Napoleon and just seemed content enough for him to be there whenever he waltzed through. 

— Johnson was an exception, but now with the baby and him moving and Napoleon feeling like he is a mess wrapped into a disaster dressed like a catastrophe, Napoleon had decided early on that theirs is a friendship he wants pick up again when he isn’t such a piece of work anymore — 

But hockey talk eventually runs out, and Sofia kept saying that ‘situational small talk is not the basis of a friendship’ so Napoleon finally gave in and decided to try out this non-hockey social-life business. If a part of him was hoping he’d fall head over heels with some random lady that would solve all his ‘rumours’ and his obsession with Kuryakin in one fell swoop, no one had to know. 

But that isn’t what he got, thank the Lord. He got something much better. 

For project ‘get a friend’ he first needed to address his car. He had never needed it much, he isn’t home often anyways and everything he needed to live was in walkable distance. But according to the internet, friendships were easier to make if coupled to some sort of activity, and as ‘hockey’ apparently didn’t count, he’d have to drive to another things. 

So he went to search for a car shop who’d wanted to take on his vintage convertible. Unlike many people thought, he hadn’t actually bought it with his first paycheck of the NHL. He’d gotten it as the only inheritance of his deadbeat dad. It had been dusting off in the garage. The only thing that hadn’t been seized to pay off the gambling debts his father had collected since before Napoleon was even born. There was no surprise that no one wanted it: It had been standing there for so long that there had been a whole ecosystem growing in the car. 

Napoleon had seen it there, left to rot in muck and grime, and thought to himself that his dad had treated the car the exact same way he’d been treated. Abandoned. Cleaning the thing up had been a form of cathartic spite, and it turned out to be a beautiful beast. The only issue was finding a mechanic who actually wanted to work with it, many of them too prideful to admit that this was above their expertise. 

It had gotten easier with his increase in pay, but money couldn’t buy trust, so Napoleon walked away from many capable and elite restoration experts, just because they didn’t feel right. In the end he abandoned the car just like his father did. Forgotten in disuse.

Until Gaby. 

The first peculiar thing about their meeting was that she did not recognize him. Napoleon doesn’t like to frame himself as such a celebrity in his own mind, but strangers knowing his name while he never leans theirs has become a fact of life. 

Gaby took one look at his suit, his expensive shoes, and impeccable hair and said, “I think you’ve got the wrong place.” 

And Napoleon had laughed, delighted, and said, “No, I’m definitely where I’m supposed to be.” 

Gaby had agreed vehemently when she saw the car. She’d been in raptures, touching the machine exactly like Napoleon wished he could. She knew everything and more about what it needed, and their only disagreement through the whole process was the fact that it did not have a name. 

“It’s a sign of respect,” she’d argued. 

“It never had one,” Napoleon had said, “It’s just the convertible. It would be weird to give one now.” 

“Blasphemy.” 

But Napoleon had not budged. The convertible stayed the convertible, but he had promised that the next thing he’ll bring to her she had naming rights for. 

That turned out not to take that long. 

Buying a beaten up Harvey just because you know the auto mechanic you’re vaguely friendly with would love it, might not have been the most healthy way to find a friend, but hey, he’s trying.

It was just that Gaby was such a breath of fresh air. She did not want to talk about hockey. She was thoroughly unimpressed with his fame and riches. Her sharp wit put even Napoleon to the test, and he felt like all his years chirping his teammates had trained him up for this and this only. 

As the convertible became more and more drivable, and the Harvey — now dubbed Rosetta — was virtually fixed up, Napoleon found other, more and more thinly veiled, excuses to hang out at the chop shop anyway. Something that seemed to make Gaby suspicious. 

One of these ploys was the issue of food. Gaby always seemed to be consumed with one project or another, but despite her personal theories, it did not actually support bodily functions. Napoleon perfectly remembers the conversation that started a tradition, and truly forged their forged friendship for once and for all. It is something he’s spoken about during therapy often, and deserves a special place in his life. 

———

“Come on, Gabs, lunch,” Napoleon says, setting his foot against the Gaby’s side and pushing her away from the car.

“Is this an attempt to get in my oil stained pants? Because I know I am amazing but the services you can bribe off me begin and end with cars.” 

Napoleon rolls his eyes. “No, I’m doing my civic duty to not let a disaster of a human being perish by auto-starvation.” 

“You don’t have a civic bone in your body.”

“You caught me, I would’ve been a criminal in another life. But come on, Gabs, I don’t want you to pass out miles deep in whatever those things are.”

“Hmm, good, because my girlfriend just left me so I can’t ask her to shoot men that bother me, and a wrench just gets so messy.”

She still looks suspicious, so Napoleon sighs. “Your virtue is safe with me. I’m in therapy because I’m hopelessly in love with an acquaintance who hated me for literal years, so let me buy you lunch and I’ll tell you about it.” 

“That’s more like it.” She wipes her arms with a cloth and puts her hands on her hips. “I’ve been wanting to check out that new sushi place but my bank account is this beautiful vibrant red and they’re refuse to trade sushi for car-related services. So your side-gig kicking a piece of plastic over ice can pay for it.” 

“You’re going to bankrupt me.” 

“As if.”

“You know nothing about what I do. You couldn’t know that—“

“I know for a fact that your jacket is worth more than my monthly rent, Solo. I see you. Come on, weren’t you harping about the wonders of lunch?” 

The sushi place itself wasn’t all that memorable. Napoleon can’t remember what he’d ordered, or any of it was good. But what he does remember is telling Gaby all about his depressive lover’s tale, being completely conscious of the fact that he’s told no one besides his therapist about this. But it had felt natural to do so, _liberating_ , and for all her teasing, Gaby was an amazing listener. 

A kind friend. 

The confirmation of their changing relationship came two sakés in when Gaby shared her own tragic story. Something that was completely unexpected for Napoleon, as he’d learned that Gaby kept personal matters close to her chest if she couldn’t properly joke about them. 

“We didn’t exactly break up. She left for work, undetermined when she’ll be able to come back. It wasn’t a break up,” she’d said. 

“So what was it?”

“She told me not to wait for her. After kissing me goodbye, she dared to— to get me to give up on her.” 

“What are you gonna do?” 

“Wait for her, of course,” Gaby had said without hesitation. “What else am I supposed to do? No matter how much she denies it, the bitch took my heart with her when she left. I’m just gonna sit here working on my own stuff until she finds it in her luggage or something.” 

It turned out that friendship was possible. It turned out that Sofia was right to push him to it. Napoleon walked away that day feeling thirty pounds lighter and one true friend richer, and hell, he even got a hug out of it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped y'all liked this Gaby intermission! This has somehow become my favourite chapter, I just get happy every time I reread it. They are just friendship goals man, and Gaby is still our sarcastic chop-shop girl even without all the spy badassery. Next week, we will see how that coming out thing will turn out! 
> 
> \-------
> 
> I’m going to be posting this message on every fic of mine from now on: 
> 
> In the EU a fandom-unfriendly law can be accepted this year, and though it shouldn’t implemented for some time, I want to prepare. Non-commercial content shouldn’t be blocked and the OTW should protect us, but you never know with algorithms. So if it turns out I can’t post fic anymore/use tumblr anymore, I want to have a mailing list to send fic around. (Like the good old days, so I’ve heard.)  
> Send a mail to somedrunkpirate@gmail.com to get on the list. I hope it won’t be necessary, but just in case.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Kuryakin opened the door of us, now it’s time we make sure the ignorant and the hateful don’t slam it shut again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii, new week new chapter. I am still alive, miraculously. Below there are reports on how this might not be a permanent state: hint, I have to write a Ton.

One week, three games. Rossforth sends them a date. The story will be released Monday morning, a press conference will be called at 10 am. Rossforth will speak first, then the head coach will read a statement, and finally Napoleon as the captain, will have a speech. One part will be Illya’s statement — Illya did not want to sit in front of a room full of paparazzi desperate for a clickable quote — the second part will be a carefully crafted statement, like a script. “You can play,” is mentioned half a dozen times. There is a request for privacy, a demand to the public to have respect, and an insinuation that the organisation will stand behind Illya in any backlash that will come his way, though they don’t have the balls to say it out right.

Napoleon fucking loathes the thing, but Illya signs off on it, so it’s not like he’s got a choice. 

The ice is a surprisingly welcome distraction, for a change. 

One week, three games. All the time he has to make this team solid enough to survive the coming storm. Young’s absence helps more than Napoleon ever expected. There had been this constant tension with his presence; like a shrill high note that lingers after too many club nights dancing in front of the audio installation. Napoleon only notices how all encompassing it had been in its absence, the way the locker room feels more spacious and free. He sees it in the faces of a few younger players, who’d been edging around Young like skittish animals since he’d joined up. Young had always been his biggest challenge as a captain, keeping him in line had cost more energy than he’d ever shown. It’s not like he could tell the coach why Young’s outbursts in particular were so draining. It’s different to hear someone spit vitriol when you’ve heard those very same words used against you as a marker of your abnormality. If you know how it sounds in the mouth of your father after he’d walked in on your first kiss. 

To walk in a locker room with its festering torn taken out of its side, and to see Illya there instead, is something to get used to. But it’s good. It’s definitely good. 

The team seems to agree. It takes a few little talks, a warning or two for the persistent grudges, but after the second game, no one looks up sideways when Illya joins them for lunch. Illya had known the necessity for team unity as much as Napoleon did, so he followed where Napoleon led, even though Napoleon knew he’d much rather stay off to the side talking to Sergei and ignoring the rest. 

Besides the acceptance through proximity, Illya’s performance on the ice has done the most work. He pushes hard for it. Napoleon makes a mental note that after the coming out business is over with, he needs to keep an eye on Illya so that he doesn’t overwork himself, in the name of ‘earning’ his spot. He’s already done that, no matter what some homophobic assholes will wail on facebook. 

So when the third game ends in a shutout, due to an amazing save Illya had made when Blake couldn’t reach, Napoleon knows that they’ve done all that they can. Locke thanks Illya by dragging him into the pile on, and there— a full smile while Illya’s drowning in a sea of Chimera. 

Napoleon lets them have their moment, smiling to himself, and Simon skates to his side, following his gaze. 

“He isn’t all that bad after all, ain’t he,” Simon says, nonchalant. “Could maybe win the cup with him.” 

Napoleon closes his eyes, releasing a breath. “Could, yeah.” 

They’ve done all they can, and maybe, just maybe, it will be enough. 

———

“We interrupt regular programming with an Ice Hockey Special. We apologise that we could not warn our viewers beforehand, but as this news has been only released this morning on a very limited basis, we have had to improvise. My name is Michael Tremblay, and here on AMC-Media I might be known as a bit of a joker, as opposed to my colleague Judy Simmer’s straight-talking woman, but this next section is an issue close to my heart. My husband and I got recently married, as everyone who follows my social media knows, and we have been fans of hockey from the moment we could wear skates. But as you know, the Ice Hockey Universe has its darker sides, and until now, there was not one NHL player, retired or otherwise, who’d publicly declared himself to be a part of the LGBTQ+ community. This has changed, today, at 9 am. The first NHL player in history has come out—“ 

“Pardon me— I— “ 

“…”

“…”

“Ehm. The first NHL player in history has come out this morning. Illya Kuryakin has released a statement that his homosexuality has been a secret his whole life in the name of protecting his career. AMC-Media has released an exclusive article written in cooperation with Illya Kuryakin, about his coming out and his wishes for the hockey community to progress beyond the hatred and homophobia it has often shown. His bravery has changed the hockey scene for this generation and the generation that will come, and I can’t say anything but thank you, Illya. Thank you. ” 

“In five minutes, Chimera will broadcast a press conference about the news. Kuryakin himself will not be present, he’s stated that he trusts his organisation to represent him well. There already people criticising this decision, but can I just say: shut the fuck up. You will never be able to understand the enormous toll coming out can take, even if it’s just to a small group of people. But Kuryakin’s talent on the ice has put him in the public eye, making this experience infinitely harder. To criticise someone’s way to cope with this kind of pressure is in my humble opinion, completely bullshit, and I won’t tolerate it. I know that most people will not listen to this, but I ask you, dear viewer, to show your support as much as you are able. Do not be another voice adding the endless ignorance that Queer people have to endure in the hockey community. If you aren’t sure, say nothing. Watch the game, enjoy the play; that’s what matters. That’s what always has mattered. We just want to watch hockey, just like players just want to play hockey. And Kuryakin has just made it a hell of a lot easier for a large group of people to enjoy it with us as well.”

“Thank you, Judy, for giving me the time to say all of that. Now, let’s move on to the broadcast. I’m going to pretend I didn’t shed a tear on live television. We will be right back.” 

———

Like vultures descending on a tasty corpse, the pressroom erupts the moment Napoleon finishes his prepared statement. In the sudden cacophony of shouting matches, it’s Napoleon’s extensive post-match experiences that make him able to weed out the questions from the noise. 

“Did Kuryakin leave the White Tigers because of his sexuality?

“Are you insinuating that the trade was instigated by homophobic management?” 

“What are your personal views on Kuryakin’s orientation?”

“Does anyone on the team feel uncomfortable—“

“What about the showering!”

“Has Kuryakin approached you inappropriately?” 

“Are the rumours of Kuryakin’s sexual relationships with White Tiger rookies now confirmed?” 

Anger rising, Napoleon clears his throat. None of the questions are about him, not really, but he can’t help but feel flailed alive, for just a moment, until he realises: Illya is going to have it so much worse. He won’t have the option to hide anymore. He’ll have to suffer until the media picks up a new obsession. That could take weeks, months. Napoleon can’t let that happen.

The room dies down, Napoleon’s eyes meet Rossforth’s for a moment. He knows he’s supposed to wrap this up. But he sees the hunger in every journalist’s eyes and he’ll be damned to let Illya alone in this. So he finally, blessedly, goes off script. 

“I have known of Kuryakin for a very long time, though the first time we really interacted was not that long ago, relatively speaking.” Napoleon leans back laconically in the squeaky plastic seat and schools his face into a half-grin, casting it around the room and hitting every camera; just bashful enough to be self-deprecating. “You might remember it.” 

The effect on the room is immediate. A wave of chuckles rises and falls, some people lean back slightly in their chairs, relaxing a bit —observing instead of hunting. Napoleon smiles; this was exactly what he was going for. Let them in, make it intimate; like they’re listening to a friend instead of interrogating a potential paycheck. He’s made them trust him— trust that he’s going to tell them a story with all the juicy details they’ve been clamouring for. 

“Illya, generously, forgave me for that indiscretion, quite some time ago, making it possible for us to put an end to that rivalry you all were so fond of.” Napoleon bites his lip and adds, “Sorry about that, by the way. I know you’ve been missing those headlines.” 

There is laughter in the room now. Napoleon lets his voice go lower, more serious. A few people hush some talkers in the back, so eager to listen, hanging on every word. 

“In the years following, I’ve seen other sides of Kuryakin. Ones that were hidden from me in our needless conflict. His leadership, his loyalty to his team, his kindness, and of course, his amazing hockey.”

Napoleon can see hands tightening around pens, microphones held out as far as their arms can reach. They are expecting a contradiction. All the build up, all the positivity, it can only lead into a ‘but…’ 

Napoleon is going to give them one. 

“But,” Napoleon says, drawing out a pause just to enjoy the moment. The precipice. “Contrary to what many of you are going to say, Kuryakin is not a rarity. Not in hockey, not in the world. It is true that the lack of acceptance on teams significantly discourages people in the LGBTQ+ community from making hockey their life, but we live in a social media age where support is just a few clicks away, and communities are easily made. It is less difficult to endure, when you are not isolated in your pain. Kuryakin is an example, but there are so many others, all over the sexual and romantic spectrum, who stay stay hidden. Who are now watching from the sidelines for how this will play out. What makes Kuryakin special the qualities I mentioned before. His utterly selfless plays have made the team better within a week— have made me a better player in even less time. Having him on my team is a unique privilege, completely detached from the personal information about him that you’ve learned today. 

But, even if there is nothing about his orientation that makes Kuryakin special, we must remember that he is brave enough to step into the light. There are enough who let rumours be rumours, choose secrecy to protect themselves from the backlash. The rare thing Kuryakin has done is been brave enough to be the first. The team, the hockey world, and I, should be nothing but grateful to Kuryakin, for he opened the door for us. When no one else dared to. So if you want any sound bite out of me, let it be this: Thank you, Illya, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you.” 

There is complete silence for a moment. No one seems to know what to do with themselves. It takes all of Napoleon’s power not to burst out into hysterical laughter. He feels Rossforth’s glare like a missile targeting system locked on his person, but she wanted him to answer questions did she not? No one told him not to give them answers to a question they did not ask. 

Napoleon leans with his elbows on the table twines his fingers together and puts them to his chin. “I will only answer questions I deem worthy,” he says, “So who is first?” 

Needless to say, the press conference did not take long after that. 

———

BREAKING: KURYAKIN FIRST TO COME OUT BUT WILL HE BE THE LAST? 

Solo hints that many are keeping secrets in the NHL. Is he one of them?

—

NAPOLEON SOLO OFF SCRIPT 

Is there more behind his statements than the voice of a supportive captain?

—

**Questions Around Chimera Captain’s Sexuality** — Napoleon Solo Takes The Spotlight Midst Kuryakin Scandal

—

**Opinion: Solo is doing this for attention.**

**__** _245 replies. Post is archived. Discussions on sexuality belong to f/speculation from now on, and will be moderated heavily._

H0ckeybitch32:

He’s just a straight dude who is a slut for the spotlight so of course he insinuated himself into the narrative. See how smugly he smiles every time a journalist asks him about it, and yet he never gives an answer. He’s just trying to draw out his recovered fame, Illya’s trade pushed him to the background for too long and now he’s lashing out. 

Chrimeraaaaaaa:

I think you’re partly right. He’s certainly doing this to draw attention to himself, but he’s doing it to draw attention away from Illya. You’ve seen how bad it’s been already, and without Solo’s actions it would be so much worse. Half of the articles about this shit are speculation about Solo. It would have been all of them if he hadn’t baited them. Straight or not, Solo put himself on the line for a teammate in a vulnerable position. We should thank him for that, not ‘cancel’ him. He’s been in the media circuit since college, so of course he knows how to keep the tabloids’ attention. A mystery keeps them going for weeks, an answer would make them refocus on Illya again. I bet that by the time it has all died down a bit, he will answer the question. And we can’t go assuming that he’d say “straight.” That would be very heteronormative of us, wouldn’t it? 

—

**Death Threats And Ice-Side Protests:** The dark side of the hockey community

_AMC-Media Michael Tremblay_

It’s been two weeks since Kuryakin’s coming out, and we have been drowning in responses, opinion pieces, and rumour articles. Of course, we cannot ignore the great wave of support, both in and outside the community. AOC shared the article Kuryakin co-wrote on Twitter with her followers and Chimera reported a tally of 500.000 tweets toward the official team-Twitter accounts. Kuryakin’s first tweet this week thanking the supporters had gone viral, along with the hashtag #ThankyouIllya, a reference to Solo’s memorable monologue. 

But an equally large part of the community reacted less than favourably. The responses spread from idiotic things like caster Timothy Depree ‘jokes’, and larger things like people smuggling posters with slurs into the station. This showing of ignorance might be embarrassing for some, but for many it’s no surprise. It has always been like this, only now people are showing their true colours on a more public stage. 

However, a small but vicious group of ice-hockey homophobes are organising horrific actions against Kuryakin. There is a theory Kuryakin is doing this for money, after he signed a one time promotional deal with You Can Play. A petition has started to remove all posters and references to Kuryakin in stadia and hockey rinks, claiming Kuryakin’s image to be ‘inappropriate for children’. Falsified reports and accusations of inappropriate behaviour have been spread all over the internet, claiming Kuryakin has done all kinds of punishable offences against younger teammates under his captaincy, leading to a horrendous conspiracy theory that Kuryakin traded away from the White Tigers as a deal to escape persecution. This has lead to a calling of an investigation, and graphic descriptions what Kuryakin would go through in prison. 

And then, besides the death-threats sent to Chimera offices, a campaign has started to revoke Kuryakin’s visa based on allegations that depend on the flavour of homophobe you’re talking to. 

These people do not deserve any credit or attention for their actions. I am writing this to make a profit, all proceeds of this article will go directly into You Can Play. So feel free to send it to your local homophobes, their rage-quits in the comments will generate good charity. I’m writing this article so that as many people as possible realise that we have to do something. We have to clean house. This is not acceptable. 

Online there has been a heavy backlash against these terrible attempts, but this is not enough. Yelling on Twitter is not enough. Blocking people is not enough. Liking, sharing, chatting, it can help spread our message to others but it is not enough. It’s when your uncle takes down his Kuryakin merch that you have to speak up. Or if your friends crack jokes whenever he’s the topic. 

Straight allies, this is the chance to better your community. Your chance not to merely _say_ that everyone is welcome to play, but to actually make it so. Be like Ronald Brown, the coach of the New York Rangers, who said in no uncertain terms that homophobic language on his team will get you benched. Or like Jacky Williams, the infamous but well loved Canadian brawler who’d jokingly tweeted at Kuryakin that he’d beat on his own team if they ever looked at him weird. Something that seemed less and less like a joke when he began a thread about the loss of his childhood best friend, who took his own life after being kicked out by his parents for being gay, and then unfollowed three of his teammates 10 minutes after the tweets, for reasons we can only theorise. 

Be like Solo, who has been playing cat and mouse with the homophobic media to shield Kuryakin as much as possible. 

Kuryakin opened the door of us, now it’s time we make sure the ignorant and the hateful don’t slam it shut again. 

 

———

The coaches and management stubbornly maintain a ‘business as usual’ attitude that would be hilarious if it wasn’t so frustrating. Sometimes Napoleon wants to grab one of the suits by the collar and shout ‘do you see what is happening? Do you see what they are doing to him?’ but that wouldn’t be of use, because he knows they do. 

They might not admit it, but Napoleon can see that the security has tightened up significantly, has overheard conversations between Rossforth’s assistance about the burden of having to wade through so much hate. He is thankful, in a grudging way, that they do seem to be protecting Illya from the worst of it, but it’s hard to do so completely, as he knows that his own stunt is the thing helping the most. 

As for the team, some seem to follow the lead of the coaches, ignoring the situation in neutral ways. Napoleon keeps an eye on those, watching for any wrong twitch, but they act the same around Illya they did before, slowly warming up to him as a teammate as they go through another week of satisfactory game. There are a few others who voiced their respect for Illya’s actions at the training that Monday, and Napoleon had hid a smile behind his hand while Illya had tried to gruffly brush off their compliments. He could read between the slight embarrassment to see a heavy breath of relief, and Napoleon had felt both ecstatic and horrified that it had only taken less than a week before those ‘blank’ expressions haunting him for years, weren’t really that blank anymore. 

And Illya— Illya is different. There is this, lightness about him now, moving like he’d literally been shackled with the secrecy. 

Through Rossforth Napoleon had learned that the White Tigers had originally planned to ‘convince’ Illya into a fake relationship with an actress, to dissuade the leak when it inevitably came out. Napoleon had felt sick to think a company would try to force an employee into a parody of their personal lives in the name of profit. Napoleon is so damned relieved and proud that Illya had had the strength to walk away from that. 

It would be so easy to be manipulated into something like that, when people you trust prey on the fear that comes with coming out anyway. He can’t imagine the things Illya has heard in those conference rooms; by the way he handles the homophobic fans in stride by just ignoring them completely. Napoleon assumes that means he’s gone through much worse. 

But then there is the watching. Illya is— watching him. All the time. Whenever Napoleon inevitably searches out his presence because he has no fucking impulse control, he finds that Illya had been watching him all along. Most of the time he looks away, as if caught out, but sometimes his face softens a little, a twitch of a smile. Something Napoleon is now able to read: gratitude. 

They haven’t really talked about Napoleon’s stunt. Napoleon is mostly glad about that, because he’s afraid Rossforth will pop up in a puff of smoke and feathers any time anyone mentions it. But for the first hour after the conference he’d been circling in panic mode, worried Illya would see his speech as disrespectful. He’d been beating himself up about being impulsive and not checking in with Illya first, until Illya had approached him and just enveloped him in a hug. 

So he knows that they’re good. He knows that Illya is thankful. But that doesn’t explain the constant watching. Or maybe it does and he’s just overthinking it. He doesn’t push Illya on it because he doesn’t want to make him think he’s supposed to be thankful. Illya doesn’t owe him anything— it’s the other way around. Napoleon owes Illya everything, because despite the barrage of the media and the resumed grind of the hockey season; the numbness stays away. 

In the spirit of pretending that nothing at all has happened, a week after the press conference, the staff and team family brunch to celebrate Chimera’s 13th year as an NHL team, continues as planned. The security team has doubled in size and there are bag checks and metal detectors before all entrances of the park they hired off, but if anyone besides Napoleon noticies, they don’t mention it. 

On Sofia’s advice, Napoleon has bribed Gaby to come with him. The event is more intended for SO’s and families, but no one is going to ban a player’s plus one, certainly not the captain’s. He isn’t the only one to take a friend. Sergei’s childhood best friend flew in from Russia for his birthday that is coming up a day after the event, and Blake took some hippy looking old woman he’s apparently met in bookclub, and in the few moments Napoleon speaks to them both, he can only infer that this Victor Hugo dude really loved himself some Parisian sewers. 

Besides the presence of fancy finger food, the main reason why Gaby allowed herself to be dragged into something hockey-adjacent, was the promise of meeting Illya. 

Something Napoleon had realised way too late was a horrible idea. 

“Illya Kuryakin,” Gaby says with a smug smile, when Napoleon’s attempts to avoid him inevitably fail, “Gaby Teller, I know entirely too much about you.” 

Illya, who had been half way into his signature ‘oh there is a fan’ face, freezes when he sees Napoleon trailing behind, and processes Gaby’s strange wording. 

Napoleon grimaces. “She doesn’t read or watch any sports media, everything she knows comes from me.” It’s embarrassing to admit, but Napoleon would rather have that than have Illya think she wants to talk about his coming out. 

Illya nods imperceptibly, still looking slightly wrong-footed. “I know nothing about you…” he trails off, looking between Gaby and Napoleon, eyes narrowing. 

Gaby joins Illya’s efforts with a glare of her own. “You forgot to talk about me? Illya, I’m so sorry. You’ve been missing out.”

Napoleon feels a sudden urge to put a hand over Gaby’s mouth. She has a talent for making him feel like a child. 

“She’s my car mechanic,” Napoleon says to Illya. 

Gaby punches him in the arm. “And he feeds me, but that’s besides the point. You’re the interesting one in this conversation. You’re the one that makes sure Napoleon wins every once in a while, right? And are you? Winning?” 

Illya’s frown becomes more and more bemused. 

“She has not watched a second of ice hockey in her pathetic life,” Napoleon informs Illya. “It’s _disturbing._ ” 

“Look, when your ankle breaks at age 6 after the very first time on the ice, get back to me with your judgements what I do and do not watch. Tiny me was smart to pick up a toolbox instead, I needed every chance I get to keep Rosetta out of your filthy, destructive, hands.” 

“Who is Rosetta?” asks Illya. 

“My Harvey,” Napoleon says. “I—

“— _Ou_ r Harvey,” Gaby corrects him, eyebrows almost kissing her hairline. “I’ve put more hours into her than you’re ever going to drive her.” 

“Time you get paid for—“

Gaby crosses her arms and huffs. 

Napoleon sighs. He’s not going to win this. “Fine. Rosetta is yours too.” 

Gaby nods sharply, satisfied. Napoleon sends Illya a commiserating eye-roll at Gaby’s insanity, but notices that there is something off about his expression. Illya keeps looking between them, he’s lost his confusion and instead he’s just blank— maybe even cold. 

“I have to go,” Illya says, a little woodenly. “Nice meeting you.” 

It’s clear that he doesn’t mean it. Illya turns around and tries to disappear into the crowd, leaving Napoleon absolutely bewildered. 

Gaby, however, purses her lips knowingly, and her eyes are bright with interest. “I think he’s jealous.” 

Illya’s imposing form creates a breach through the ocean of people, enough that they have a perfect view when Illya looks over his shoulder towards them, and —are his cheeks redder than they were? what the hell? — snaps his head back when he notices they are still watching him. 

“Yep, definitely jealous,” Gaby says. 

“No, he was just too disturbed by you to cope,” Napoleon blusters. “You have a singular talent there.”

“Whatever you tell yourself Napoleon, but your boy got it out for you, and I bet he’s thinking that I’ve stolen his cheesecake right under his nose.” 

“You are talking nonsense,” Napoleon says. “He— you— I am not a cheesecake. That isn’t a metaphor I can condone.” 

Gaby ignores him, just threads her arm through his. “Come on, Solo. Let’s have some fun with this. This is going to be so much more interesting than _Ice hockey.”_

“I will have you know that I’m only going along with this because you’re wrong,” Napoleon says hauntingly. “But I’m never going to introduce you to anyone else ever again.” 

Gaby pats his hand consolingly. “Whatever you tell yourself,” she says, and Napoleon lets her drag him from person to person, introducing her to everyone he knows. 

None of them seem to have the same response to Gaby’s… Gabyness like Illya had, but Napoleon suspects that Gaby plays nice with the rest on purpose. Her charm is sharp but obvious, she’s got half of the team and most of the crew under her spell before the end of the night. To Napoleon’s surprise, he actually has to explain multiple times that they’re not in a relationship, while he’d told the team that he’d be bringing a friend. 

Well, maybe not the whole team. It was during the locker room debrief after a game, and Illya had been whisked away by someone from the PR-team as seems to have become a bi-weekly occurrence. 

But this doesn’t mean Illya assumed what others stupidly assume about them, and even if he did, there is no reason for Illya to have any problems with that. Gaby is just being fanciful, probably missing her girlfriend too much, it’s making her a hopeless romantic. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am Very Stressed because Uni starts in less than two months (holy fuck) and I still have no moving date! YAY 
> 
> To cope I've decided to be even more stressed about writing Yay. You know how I planned to have this story be short? Well, you know me. We're not done yet. I still have one chapter to write (hopefully), but yall are at least 2 chapters behind on me. So buckle up y'all. I am Praying that we just passed the halfway point. 
> 
> I am planning to start posting the prequel in August, because it's been Fucking Two Years since I started Drowning Deep (what the FUCK) and I don't want it to be longer. But that means I gotta finish the draft, and I still got 3 chapters (long ass chapters) to go I think. But I'm also going on vacation in two weeks, so that means I have 14 days to finish the prequel. Help. 
> 
> (And then also Good Omens which is stressing me out because people liked my shit A Lot and I thought I'd have more time to write them some stuff too.) 
> 
> Anyway That was my writerly rant. See yall next week.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told y'all ;)

A few games later, Napoleon has forgotten all about the “Gaby incident”. The media is still a hell-scape and he’s getting the feeling that post-match interviews will be rarely about the game anymore— the only media company who seems to be interested in hockey is AMC-media, and Napoleon is more than relieved whenever they get question time. But despite the chaos, they make a good start out of the season.

A two day break leads the winter months, set up so that most players can drive from the Friday evening practice to go to the airport, visiting family or friends during their weekend off. Napoleon had let them all go an hour earlier, and the locker room is mostly empty in about one third the time it normally takes; everyone in a rush for freedom. 

In the end, Napoleon is only accompanied by Illya as they walk out of the stadium. Something that makes his stupid heart almost bounce out of his chest. 

“Got any plans, Peril?” 

Illya shrugs. “Not really, house almost done, only need to do a few things. Oven still not working.” 

With the way he says it, he almost seems subdued by the prospect of a free day. Napoleon remembers their conversation-- ‘hockey was all my life. Not healthy’. It seems like the perfect opening to propose to do something together. Show him around town, help him with the oven, cook for him at Napoleon’s place if they are unable to fix it. Eat dinner together with the last rays of the sun, feet tangling together under the table. And maybe it will be too stormy to drive back home safely, ‘ _So you can stay, Peril, really. You can stay as long as you want.’_

Napoleon almost walks into a pole, lost in thought. He snaps out of it just on time, smiles at Illya and claps him on his back, saying, “Well don’t burn your place down with that oven,” and walking off with a wave.

He carefully doesn’t consider the possibility that the expression on Illya’s face might have been disappointment. 

The distance, plain and simple, that’s what Napoleon needs. Without Illya’s constant presence it’s suddenly easier to breathe. He’s planning to not think about Illya for the coming days— it would be healthy of him, but however much he tries, he keeps popping up in his mind. 

It doesn’t help matters that the distance seems virtually impossible to attain. First it’s just a drive by, Illya doesn’t even notice him as their cars cross paths, but it’s enough for Pandora’s box to open. Then it’s the grocery store, where he finds Illya stumbling through a conversation with a bored clerk trying to find an ingredient for a dish he can only explain in Russian. 

It’s only proper of a captain to step in and help his teammate out. It’s anything but proper to get weak in the knees when Illya shoots him a radiant smile, his lost ingredient in hand. Small talk is normal and necessary, and yes, maybe Napoleon shouldn’t have offered to help pick out a colour for his bedroom walls, but what is he supposed to do? Say no to that face? 

They end up buying a dark forest green that reminds Napoleon of laying down in the moss of the woods next to his childhood home, the only place where he ever felt calm as a kid. In a strike of surprising self-control, Napoleon politely refuses to help Illya paint that night. That he has a hand in the colours of Illya’s fucking bedroom is insane enough. He’ll literally die if he has to be there, watch Illya stretch up in an old t-shirt and baggy sweats, a hint of skin just visible— Jesus Christ. 

Luckily, he has an actual appointment to go to. Despite Sofia’s best efforts and Napoleon previous plans, all he talks about is Illya. The whole coming out media frenzy and the team dynamics are a mere flavour to the extensive descriptions of their interactions, and the stress but also terrifying contentment caused by them. “That’s disturbing, isn’t it, to have your captain obsess over you like that.” 

“You have to work on your internalised homophobia, Napoleon. Framing natural feelings as something disturbing is not good for you. You are not utilising your position over him, you are not leading him into anything. You are acting like a captain, and a potential friend. The fact that you have feelings for him does not automatically mean you’re being manipulative. I can see that you’re being very conscious about your actions. I do have to concede that my original assumption that your infatuation would lessen with proximity was wrong. Your regard for him has grown as you get to know him better.” 

“I know. I l—“ Napoleon grimaces. “That was so much easier to say when he was far away. But I think I really am in love with him, and it’s kind of freaking me out. I haven’t felt this good in ages, but I know that anything goes wrong, I’ll be off in the deep end. Hell, I’ve been interrogated about my sexuality more than I’ve ever been in my life, and normally that would have fucked me up, but now I don’t care. I don’t give a shit. I’m doing it for him, to protect him, so nothing they say touches me. Every invasive question and every slur, is one he didn’t have to deal with, so it just doesn’t hurt me. It’s _insane_.” 

Sofia nods, looking thoughtful. “He certainly seems a positive force in your life right now, but an uncertain one. I understand your fear of feeling like one person has so much power over your mental state, but we might need to investigate if that is actually true. You’ve become resilient over the years, you have the tools and the support system to withstand a downwards swing. Have you talked to Gaby or Raymond about this?” 

“No, not really,” Napoleons says. “I mean, a bit with Gaby, mostly complaining, but she’s a risk taking kinda person, and she thinks Illya is interested in me, so far she’s been kinda stressing me out about it.” 

“Have you told her that?” 

“Yes—“ Napoleon sighs. “No— I have, hinted it. Joked about it. But I haven’t explicitly said it.” 

Sofia nods, and makes a note. “I’m glad you’re able to recognise that now. “ 

“Yeah, yeah,” Napoleon says. 

“And Raymond?” asks Sofia innocently— or that’s what Napoleon is projecting on her spitefully: he thought he’d got away with it. 

“Raymond is busy—“

Sofia raises an eyebrow. 

“And, you know. It would be a bit weird to talk about it with him. I haven’t actually come out to him? I think he knows though.” 

“Joked and hinted?” Sofia asks, with a spark of mischief that makes Napoleon chuckle despite himself, and some tension releases from his chest. That good old unreasonable defensiveness— thanks dad. 

“I suppose,” Napoleon says. “He sent me an email about all the articles yesterday. Just asking how I was. Haven’t replied yet. And yes, I am going to… when I figure out what to say.” 

“Do you need help drafting it?” 

“No, I don’t think so. I just gotta think for a bit. I’ll ask Gaby if I need to.” 

“Alright. I can understand that Raymond is too much of a father figure for you to have a conversation about Illya without some layer of awkwardness, but I do advise you to have an honest conversation about the situation.” 

Napoleon nods. 

“Before this session I had intended to ask you about your mental health, regarding the surge of media concerning your sexuality. I haven’t read the articles, of course, I want all information about you to come from you solely, but even I couldn’t escape the wave. But you’ve already told me the things they are saying about you don’t bother you, something that you’ve always held up as the main reason for not coming out.” 

“Yes. It doesn’t. Because of Illya.” 

“Maybe, but things aren’t usually that black and white. When you started with me, you’d internalise everything you read about yourself. A negative article could destabilise you for weeks. Your main issue with accepting your diagnosis was the fear of people finding out, and calling you ungrateful and lazy. I haven’t seen these triggers in a long time, Napoleon. You’ve been much better with not seeking out negativity, and handling it better when it does comes up. Isn’t there a chance that the work you put in has resulted in your stability now?”

“I’m not exactly stable—“ Napoleon snorts, but then rolls his eyes at Sofia’s look. “I know. I know. I used up my self-deprecation quota last week.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about that. It’s almost easier with this because I know they’re wrong. All that hate, all that prejudice, that’s easier to reject than things I do believe about myself, on bad days.” 

“Hmm. I understand that.” 

“But yeah, it’s been easier. Everything lately has been easier than I imagined, which is insane because it’s been a fucking mess. But I just— I’ve been happy. It’s terrifying. I’m so afraid to lose it.” 

Sofia gives that head-tilted nod of hers, which means he’d just said something she’d seen and had been waiting for him to discover himself. 

Napoleon leans forward with his elbows on his knees and wrings his hands, staring at a stain on the carpet, blood rushing in his ears. 

“Remember your breathing Napoleon, and give yourself some time.” 

Napoleon nods slowly, counting out his breaths as the waves of terror fall over him. He feels like he’s drowning, but he knows that is only temporary. He knows not to listen to the thoughts skittering through his mind, to just focus on breathing— and that peculiar stain. 

“Move your eyes for a moment.” 

Napoleon forces himself to. It’s hard. It’s so easy to get stuck, but stuck means paralysation, and paralysation means panic, so he has to— he has to— 

His eyes snap from the carpet to the wall, and Napoleon shudders in another breath. Okay. Not stuck. That means it’s almost over. Just a few more breaths. 

The terror leaves his body in increments; his muscles relax, releasing aching tension Napoleon hadn’t even noticed. His hands are a little white, but regain colour quickly as he stretches his fingers. Napoleon swallows, rolling his shoulder blades and experimentally moves to sit up straight. The only thing remaining is the rush in his ears and the pounding of his heart, but he knows from experience that those will lessen in a few seconds. 

He refocuses on Sofia, who smiles at their eye contact and taps on her phone. 

“31 seconds,” she says, and reaches over to give Napoleon a bottle of water. 

“That’s good,” Napoleon says, before taking a long gulp. “Not quite a record, but close.” 

Sofia rolls her eyes, “Not everything is a competition, Napoleon.” 

“I know,” Napoleon says, twitching his lips, “but it’s more fun that way.” 

“If it works, it works,” Sofia says as long-sufferingly as her professional tendencies allow her to, and continues, “Do you feel ready to continue the session, or do we end it here?” 

Napoleon takes another deep breath and reflects. He feels tired, as is usual after moments like that, but okay. Maybe even a little satisfied about how quickly that one passed. “I feel okay. I can continue.” 

“Alright,” Sofia says. “I’m glad you were able to recognize your fear of your successes in recovery. This is very normal for patients who are not used to having something to lose, as you said, and haven’t yet had the experience that happiness isn’t an exponential process. I understand that you feel like you’ll start at the bottom again the moment you fall, and we will work on this fear in later sessions. But I wanted to note something specific. Have you considered the possibility that maybe the main reason why you’re still avoiding telling Illya your full truth, is because you’re afraid that the possible rejection will bring back your depressive state?” 

Napoleon stares at her for a moment, and then gives a jerky shake of his head. “Well, shit. That is incredibly selfish of me.”

“I’m not judging you, Napoleon, and don’t be so quick to judge yourself. It is logical that you’ve been subconsciously protecting yourself from what you deem to be a dangerous trigger. You’re afraid to lose the happiness you have right now, and that is okay.” 

She pauses for a second, giving him a soft smile, but then continues mercilessly:

“But you’ve been expressing the desire to stop making decisions based on fear, and I think it is good to reflect every once in a while if that isn’t what you’ve been doing, without noticing. I think both the question of coming out and being truthful to Illya, are tied to this fear of losing what you have. Many of the reasons are either justifications, or are in some way tied to that fear indirectly. So I invite you to think about it, and try to figure out which reason to avoid certain actions remains, after you’ve taken the fear out of the equation. If any.” 

Napoleon closes his eyes but nods, exhaustion coming with a sudden vengeance. “Alright.” 

“Okay, that was it for me. Do you have any other things to discuss?”

“No, I’m good. I need to process.” 

“Then I’ll see you either next week, or the week following, depending on the schedule.” 

———

_Email from Napoleon to Raymond_

Hey, thank you for checking in. I’m doing surprisingly well, actually. Illya is integrating well, he’s destroyed the last of the remaining grudges with that stunt Sunday, and I think we’ve lucked out with the team itself on the coming out thing. I’ve had a few talks with some lesser educated members, but we haven’t had any major issues. You’ve done a lot of work for me man, you never tolerated any hate speech in the team so the veterans are used to keeping their mouth shut or supporting me whenever I call a rookie out. It helps a ton. Illya says thanks, by the way. He seems to know how much you’ve changed this organisation, maybe that’s also a part of why he decided to join us. 

(Also, if hypothetically I said that Young leaving was the best thing that happened to this team. I’d know that everyone in the team would hypothetically agree.) 

The media is a shit show, a little more than usual. That’s my fault. Rossforth is on a warpath but I think it’s gone splendidly. They’re all running around in circles like headless chickens trying to peck me open for my secrets, and in the meantime they barely remember Illya has actually come out. They do love a mystery. It doesn’t bother me, which is hilarious. After fearing a leak for so damn long, I’m now having to hold in my laughter while they yell the grossest questions at me. How the tables have turned. 

I’m dancing around a question you have had for a while, but know not to ask. Yeah, I’m queer. Gay or Bi, don’t really know, was to scared to figure it out as a kid and after that too depressed to care. Now that I’m feeling better (again, thank you for sending me to Sofia), I have more space to think about it, but it still feels like a landmine I’d rather not step on. I suppose I’ve gone ahead and done it anyway, but I think I’ve made my peace with that. 

I guess this is easier to say in an email at 3am but I really wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Your full acceptance of everyone, and your consistent intolerance for homophobia dragged me from a dark pit of denial I hadn’t even realised I’d been in since college started. The day you invited me to go to a pride parade with some other team members was the day I got hope that it might be okay to be… not straight, and still hockey. It blindsided me, so I made excuses, and then was scared you thought I was homophobic. God I was a mess. I don’t know how much you knew then, but that doesn’t really matter. The point is that you saved my ass, (and it’s a beautiful ass, if I do say so myself.) 

Anyway, I gotta log off before I sleep through my own practice. Peril would never stop chirping me about that. Can’t risk it. 

G’night, 

Napoleon

_Email from Raymond to Napoleon_

Napoleon, 

We’re going to have a good beer and talk about all that face to face later, but everything you’ve said means a lot to me, and was exactly the impact I was hoping to have in the case anyone in my team needed it. I wish you the best with your further self-discovery, and though I might not be the most ‘studied’ person on the subject, you’re always welcome to discuss things with me. I will try my best. :) 

I’m glad that everything is going well and that my efforts with the team have paid off. I’ve heard and seen good things, and ignored all the bad. So far, at least. I’m planning to break my silence soon, can’t say too much but, but in summary: I’m going to look at the captains of the NHL real hard in the eye and force them to explain to me how impossible it is to keep homophobia out of a team. I might be retired but I still wield some power, and I’m going to use that as effectively as I can. If they respect my tenure as captain for close to a decade. they should be following my efforts to get hate speech out of our locker-rooms to the letter. Otherwise, they do not respect me at all. 

If you’re comfortable, my agent could send you some questions about the dynamic of the team, and your impressions on if my zero tolerance rules have held even after my departure. Your first email already gave me good insight, but as much evidence as we can get would be amazing. 

In the meantime I’ve found my very own ‘Sofia’ and I have to agree, they’re an effective bunch at getting you out of your own messes. If it’s okay, I would like to speak to him about this conversation, and brag about how ‘communicative’ and ‘emotionally vulnerable’ I have been. Those are his favourite things, I tell ya. 

I know it’s still almost two months to go, but you’re invited for Christmas if you’re available. Tela has been watching your games completely mesmerised, so I think your visit will be the biggest Christmas present I could ever give to her. And it would be nice to see you again as well, of course. (That was an attempt at humour. If you aren’t sure.) (The invitation is genuine though, and Tela does actually watch your games like that.) (I am not great at this.) 

Good luck this weekend. Don’t overcompensate your left leg, I can see you do it on tv and I don’t want to see you injured already. 

I think that was everything. Oh, wait. One more question: who is this Peril? 

Sincerely, 

Raymond Johnson

——— 

“If you just—“

Napoleon groans. “Gaby—“

“Shut up— and. Stay. Still.” 

“My arms are hurting Jesus—“

“I can’t believe you are a professional athlete when you can’t even hold me up for more than a— Ah! I got it. Now lower me.” 

Napoleon puffs out a breath, sweat staining his forehead and he has to blink to keep it from dripping into his eyes. He wasn’t lying about his arms and he feels his elbows beginning give just before they do.

“Ga—“ 

Napoleon doesn’t have time to brace, his arms stuck underneath Gaby’s waist, so Gaby tips over sideways, landing with her shoulder in Napoleon’s stomach as she reflexively rolls into the fall. 

“Oof,” Napoleon breathes, pain blooming through his body. He sucks in a breath and lets his arms flop to the floor, not caring for a moment that it’s covered in car grease. 

Gaby turns around— still draped over him, and the movement makes Napoleon hiss and push against Gaby’s wretched arm. Not the smartest decision as it dislodges Gaby into landing with her head on Napoleon’s chest. 

Gaby huffs out a breath and stays, blessethly, still. “Solo. Tell me I didn’t just break a bone because I do not have the money to pay off the multimillion insurance on your little toe.” 

Napoleon is just about to reassure her that he’s fine: It’s gonna be a nasty bruise but that’s what he gets from agreeing to replace Gaby’s — thing that pushes her up horizontally underneath a car, Napoleon has no clue what it’s called — when it broke this morning.

But he can’t, because the wind chimes clatter to signify the opening of the door, and Napoleon is faced with Illya, looking down at them with a bemused look on his face. 

“Oh,” Napoleon says, “Hi, Peril.” 

Gaby, who had been pushing herself up at the arrival of a potential client, suddenly isn’t in any hurry to move. She butts her chin against Napoleon’s chest and smiles entirely too mischievously, saying, “Hey Kuryakin, don’t worry, you weren’t interrupting anything.” 

Illya’s expression goes from confusion to something else— something that is swallowed up by a look that would be neutral if it weren’t for the tense twitch in his jaw. But what it means, Napoleon is completely lost. 

“Don’t listen to her,” Napoleon assures him, though he doesn’t really know what for. He starts to push Gaby off of him, his arms still aching a little. “She’s being ungrateful. I could have died helping her.” 

“Don’t listen to him,” Gaby says immediately, and finally slides off, standing up with a little bounce and shake to get the the dust of her and onto Napoleon instead. “He’s being dramatic.” 

Illya’s lips press together. “Are you… open?” 

“Definitely,” Gaby says, and smiles wide. “What can I do for you?” 

A tire change, it turns out, which would have been anti-climactic if Illya hadn’t lead them out of the shop and stop beside a fucking beautiful beast of a Harvey. 

“Gorgeous,” Gaby says reverently. “I just have just the right fit for it. She looks new, have you bought it recently?” 

Illya clears his throat, and shrugs. “Some time. Year, maybe. Only got transported now.”

“Well it looks like she’s made the trip in tact, except for the tire, but I’ve seen a lot worse than that. Are you sure you don’t want to go for an oil change as well, maybe a lick of paint here? There is a scratch.” 

Gaby rambles on as the Harvey is mounted to the cables overhead. Illya seems too overwhelmed to say no to her so in the end he agrees to leave the bike for a couple of days. Napoleon shakes his head and smiles at the two of them— Illya is going to have to become immune to that trick soon, or otherwise she’ll rob him blind. He’s had experience. 

The moment Gaby has a wrench in her hand, the barrage of commentary stills abruptly. The shop is quiet, except for the metal clinking against metal, and the squeaky wheels underneath Gaby’s chair. This would normally be the time Napoleon would take out a book from his back, or listen to some podcast or another— comforted by the familiar sounds within the silence. But now, with Illya lingering, leaning against the one wall that isn’t covered in tools, the quiet is nerve wracking. 

Napoleon decides to continue like nothing is going on, hoping that Illya will take the hint and say his goodbyes. So he goes to the back, where Gaby has a small cove with two love seats she ‘liberated’ from a dumping ground, and thick red curtains between steel pillars that make it feel like a tiny living room; complete with plants spilling out of their buckets hanging overhead. But where he expects the wind chimes to appear again, there is a hush of curtain instead, and Illya looks from Napoleon to the second sofa, a question on his face.

Napoleon might be immune to Gaby, but he sure as hell isn’t to Illya. So he makes a ‘by all means gesture’, and carefully doesn’t think about the way their legs are maybe three inches from each other. 

Illya keeps mercifully, yet terrifyingly quiet, for the first ten minutes or so. Napoleon reads and rereads the same page over and over again, before giving up and starts the same endless cycle with his phone instead. It isn’t exactly awkward, or at least it might not be for Illya; who has been watching Gaby’s process with interest and a hint of caution, like he too needs time before he can entrust anyone with his bike. 

Napoleon follows his gaze and smiles, nudging Illya’s leg with his foot. “Don’t worry, she’s going to take care of it like her own child. Or, that might be a bad metaphor because she doesn’t want one. Uhm, her own car? ”

Illya’s eyes latch from his bike to Napoleon, and Napoleon feels like the emotional hue of his expression doesn’t change; there is some interest, curiosity maybe, and that hint of caution. 

Napoleon’s mouth goes dry. He swallows. 

“How long are you together?” Illya asks, dispelling the moment with— wait. What?

“What?” Napoleon says, inanely. 

Illya huffs, frustrated, that same face he made in the supermarket when he couldn’t explain a Russian word. “I mean. How long _have you been_ together. Gaby and you.”

“Oh,” Napoleon says, as if that clarified anything. “We’re not? Together?

This time it’s Illya’s turn to say something in pure confusion, “Not?” 

“No?” Napoleon shakes his head, and then laughs a little; they both sound completely befuddled. “No, we’re not. We’re friends. Good friends.” 

Illya is still frowning, but he’s nodding to, like he’s slowly getting used to the idea. “Good friend, who not like hockey.” 

Napoleon almost closes his eyes in relief— whatever awkward cycle they got stuck in, Illya is breaking it. “Yeah, strange right? I almost didn’t know they existed.” 

“Other species.” 

Napoleon laughs. “Exactly.” He pops his head outside the curtains to call out, “Gabs, Illya thinks you’re an alien too. Two against one!” 

“Shut up, Solo! I’m working.” 

———

After Illya leaves, Gaby lets herself be dragged away from the bike and to Boonsri’s place. Napoleon needs some air, a different surrounding from the place where he’d chatted with Illya for over two hours. It was… nice. Terrifyingly so. They’d talked about the shop around them, Gaby’s peculiar style, then about the bikes, Illya chuckling through the embarrassing story of buying Rosetta. 

“I saw, on insta,” Illya had said. “When it was done. One player on my team was very jealous. Kept updating us.” 

Napoleon feels kind of, shaky— adrenaline fuelled, the same way after a close game. That strange mix of euphoria and stress: happy to have won but knowing it had been too close and it could have gone catastrophically. 

That’s what Napoleon is thinking about right now, imagining those catastrophic ways it could have gone. How easily he could have betrayed himself. How disturbed Illya would have been to learn his secret. There is a thought that sounds a little too much like Sofia, admonishing him for being so negative against himself, but Napoleon ignores it. 

Boonsri brings them their usual, smiling wide, her braids as impeccable as ever, but Napoleon can barely greet her. Words seem to get stuck in his throat. The food seems entirely unappealing, and he realises that he’s been staring at his plate for whoever knows how long, until Gaby pokes him with her fork. 

“If you’re not gonna eat that, let me steal it before it gets cold.” 

Napoleon looks up and blinks, trying to shed the tight cobwebs of anxiety covering his thoughts. “No— No, I’m going to eat it.” 

Gaby raises an eyebrow. “What are you waiting for?” 

“Just—” Napoleon sighs, shrugging. “Thinking.”

A knowing smile forms on Gaby’s face. “About Illya.”

Napoleon puts piece of naan in his mouth as an excuse not to say anything. 

Gaby isn’t deterred. “Can we at least agree that he’s into you? Didn’t you see that face? He was so jealous, holy shit.” She shakes her head, laughing. “Did he ask you if we were together, because I think that boy really broke his heart today.” 

Napoleon grits his teeth, annoyance rising, but trying to force it down like usual. This is just Gaby, she makes jokes, that’s normal, that’s how it’s supposed to be— or, that’s what he makes it to be, if he doesn’t say anything otherwise. “Can you _stop_ that?” 

Gaby freezes mid laugh, frowning. “What?” 

“I know I told you you could joke about it but this—“ Napoleon spits, but Gaby’s eyes are getting wider with surprise and okay, he has to calm down, it’s not her fault, she can’t read his thoughts. “I— He— I don’t know what to do Gabs. This is not a situation I ever expected to deal with, so, you know. That shit ain’t helping, joking about that isn’t helping.” 

Gaby’s frown smoothes out and she reaches out to touch his hand in a rare gesture of softness. “Hey, I’m sorry that I’m stressing you out. I didn’t mean to, but yeah, it’s a shit situation I get that.” She purses her lips together, hesitating a moment, but then continues, a little quiet. “If I have to quit completely, say the word, but Napoleon, honestly, I’m not joking about this. I wouldn’t. I might say it in stupid ways but I honestly believe that he’s at least interested in you. I don’t know if he’s like, ready to hear a full blown love confession, so I’m gonna stop pushing you to do that. But God, man. Just consider the possibility someone can like you. Stop listening to that stupid brain of yours and look at the evidence.” 

Napoleon takes a deep breath, shaking his head on reflex. 

Gaby squeezes his hand and says, “Just think about it.” 

“That’s all that I’m doing.”

“Are you sure?” Gaby asks innocently, “because from where I’m standing, you’ve sat here with a droopy face ever since Illya came by and that is not the expression of someone who is considering to have hope. You’re catastrophizing, aren’t you?” 

“I regret teaching you that.” 

Gaby lets go off his hand with another squeeze. “I know you regret meeting me but do me a favour and take my advice for once.” 

“Last time I did, I almost had to be driven to the ER.” 

“Not my fault you can’t drive in reverse.” 

“I can, but just not at 100 miles an hour.” 

“Amateur.” 

The only reason Napoleon doesn’t flick a spoonful of curry at her is because they are in an establishment and he’s actually fully capable of not being a child, unlike some. But it’s a close call. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one trusts me anymore! So many people saying I'd draw out the misunderstanding for chapters and chapters! How rude, tsk. 
> 
> On progress: I've still one chapter of this already done, and I gotta finish writing the last chapter of this fic, so we're almost done! 
> 
> With the prequel there also has been progress, I only have to finish the last one or two chapters. I already noted down the end scene and the small epilogue. But yall, it gon be heavy. I'm never writing prequels again lmao, it's so counter my usual 'resolving' focused way of writing. I had a lot of fun writing it so far, but all my usual 'wrapping up' I do at the end of a fic is impossible here, and I hope y'all will understand that, and that the little epilogue will be enough not to feel unsatisfied at the end. 
> 
> And there is the issue with DD being more than 2 years old, so I've become a more experienced writer since then, and I didn't want to perpetuate the little mistakes I made with DD, so it might not completely match up? I don't know if it's noticeable, but I'm so paranoid for plotholes lmao. Like I'm lucky that DD is from Illya POV, bc Illya was a pretty unreliable narrator if it had to do with Napoleon, certainly at the start. 
> 
> Anyway that's this weeks writerly rant ;p Thank you for your sweet messages, and see yall in the comments!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff! Fluff tell you! (Or, at least, for my standards. I've been informed I'm not great at recognizing it.) 
> 
> Hi y'all! One more chapter to go and due to my amazing procrastination skills I still gotta write a chunk of it :D :D I'm gonna be on vacay next week so the chapter will be a week late, as I can't guarantee wifi and/or internet presence around that time. Hope this chapter will be enough to tide you over!

“Welcome, viewers, for this very special segment. My name is Judy Simmer, and next to me I have Raymond Johnson, ex-captain of Chimera and now author of his debut, Making Space. A personal account on how ice hockey can be made more inclusive, from the perspective of management and captaincy.”

“Thank you, Judy, for giving me this opportunity.” 

“Of course, we are glad to have you. The first question on everyone's mind is of course the timing. Recently, the first NHL player of all time came out to the world, which is a very relevant event to your book, Making space. The book is more than just an account on how your tenure as Captaincy went, it is a kind of instruction manual for captains to make sure that inclusivity is not merely window dressing, but actual praxis. Writing a book this short amount seems to be an impossible feat, but still people have wondered if there was a connection with past events.” 

“No, I definitely couldn’t haven’t written it so quickly, I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone. Making Space has been in production for years. I started it about four years before I retired, knowing that I wanted to make sure my efforts and the efforts of the staff around me, would not disappear with my retirement. I’ve been working with amazing people from all kinds of demographics inside and outside the hockey community, to make sure that it wasn’t merely my observations, but academic and scientific data supporting the instructions you mentioned.” 

“So the junction with Kuryakin’s coming out is mere coincidence?” 

“Mostly, but not quite. We originally planned the release just before Pride month, even if the book has been mostly done since this summer. But we decided that we wanted to counter the ignorant rhetoric that has popped up once more since Kuryakin’s brave actions, so my amazing team has banded together and pushed for early release. They’ve worked really hard for it. I mostly wanted it to be done right now so I had a book to throw at peoples’ faces when they claimed it would be impossible to get all homophobia out of the locker rooms. It isn’t. You just have to work for it.” 

“You already touched this a bit, but besides a legacy, are there any other reasons why you’ve pushed so hard for this?” 

“The better question would be, why not? Why isn’t everyone pushing? I didn’t start advocating against intolerance in the community because I have a specific personal connection to someone affected— of course, I have friends who are, but they were not the primary reason, and I feel only fighting for the rights of people you know is incredibly selfish. I started because I was put in a leader position and saw things I did not agree with, and wanted it to stop. I started because I knew that even if there wasn’t someone affected in my team personally, that the toxic language and the reluctance to call each other out, made for worse team dynamics, and worse people. People who use slurs as a joke are not people I like to associate myself with, but you don’t always have a choice about who you work with. I could not just ignore it, and I am challenging others with the same opinions I hold, to stop doing so as well.” 

“I agree completely. But to give voice to a common argument, isn’t it there a risk for someone to ‘rock the boat’ so to say? There have been reports of bullying protesting players, or captains losing the respect of his team, by confronting players on their ignorance.”

“Oh, yes there are definitely risks, but if you decide to do nothing because you are worried to lose the respect of people who have no respect for others, than I feel like you have to reevaluate your priorities. It is an incredibly selfish action, to do nothing, while there are so many people who do not have a choice but to live with these ignorances, every single day. If you believe yourself to be educated on these matters, or ‘woke’ as the kids say nowadays, but you keep your mouth shut anyway, then I don’t know what to tell you, man. You might not be as bad as the people spitting hatred, but you’re also not much better.” 

“Well said. I’m afraid that is our time. You can pre order Making Space right now on wherever you get your e-books, and the physical copies will be in stores everywhere next week. Go to www.MakingSpace.com where you can find a free downloadable PDF with a summary of the instructions, so you can print it out and give it to your coaches, or hang it up in the locker room. Thank you, Raymond, for writing this, and your efforts of the last decade. I am sure they are appreciated by the majority of the community.”

“Oh, before I forget. All proceeds of the book are shared between You Can Play and the Trevor project.” 

“That is absolutely amazing.” 

———

As first week of November gives way to an array of orange and reds fluttering in the wind, Napoleon enjoys the first time in his life where hockey is more of a background noise than the pivot around which his life turns. Not that it isn’t important— he feels as if he’s reborn on the ice, every second like that Captain’s rush again, all because of Illya. But where usually his non-hockey life limits itself to merely Gaby, therapy, and the daily grind of living, other things start to fill up the little free time he has. 

For one thing, he’s cooking again. Cooking was one of those things— one of those things he’d enjoyed before it was all swallowed whole by the depression void. The complex steps that once held his complete focus, had started to become a frustrating maze. The thrill of a new recipe only lead to inevitable disappointment. Nothing was good enough for Napoleon back then; everything took too much energy to complete, until he had little to no interest in the food after he was done making it. 

But that time, finally, seems to have passed. It might be partly Gaby’s fault that it took so long, as they got into the habit of take-out and never really looked back. But Illya has been talking about this recipe his mother sent him as a ‘coming out’ gift of some kind, and ever since then, the itch to create has taken Napoleon by storm. 

Gaby complained high and mighty the first time he brought leftovers to the shop, right up until she took the first bite and cursed, saying, “Boonsri got nothing to this.” 

Napoleon had protested, defending Boonsri even if she’d never know, but secretly he’d taken the compliment to heart, and cooking became a regular affair. Once again, Illya had said just the right thing when he needed it, without even trying. It’s getting ridiculous. 

What’s even more ridiculous is the way Illya has twined himself into Napoleon’s non-hockey life. 

It always starts with hockey, still. Be it a training or a game, somehow Napoleon and Illya seem to arrive at the same place, the same time, at every opportunity. It’s like they’re stuck in a strange form of sync, every action in their routine taking about the same amount of time, until Napoleon is used to falling into step with Illya on their way to the hockey rink, giving him the coffee he bought extra at the coffee stand— though he can’t really claim he’s ordered wrong again, can he? No. He’s got to accept it. 

He’s got a coffee routine with Illya fucking Kuryakin. 

But even during hockey, it seems to be more than just hockey. The sparks of a friendship lighting up every moment in between. Napoleon can’t remember how long it has been since he talked about non-hockey things so frequently during hockey hours. Their topics range from childhood towns to crazy friend stories, from favourite movies to places to visit. 

Napoleon learns that Illya has always wanted to go to Thailand again. He had been there once with his family, before his father got sent to jail, and still remembers the gigantic golden temples, strange dragon-egg looking fruits that were as refreshing as a bath of ice water, and the jungle grounds that could only be traversed by elephant. 

Despite his thick accent, Illya can tell beautiful stories, and Napoleon finds himself lost in the tales for days on end, Illya’s warm voice filled with content remembrance, painting the colours of a sunset by sea. 

During the games, there is also something different and more— now, when Napoleon scores, he knows that Illya will wrap his arms around him, grinning from ear to ear, shouting, “You are best player, Cowboy! Best player of all time!” 

It makes him hungry for the next goal, and the next, just to see that face again. 

That night, the team lumbers into the little bar across the Chimera parking lot, high on the amazing start of the season, and eager to continue their streak of success for the games until Christmas. Everyone agreed to Napoleon’s offer to have a night out together, turning a blind eye to the alcohol consumption, because they don’t have a game for four days anyway. Missing one practice because of hangover should be an official reward to the performance they’ve had, but the suits are too boring to do so, and thus Napoleon gives them permission unofficially anyway.

And yes, Napoleon might have drunk a little too much to be in any responsible position. But somehow one drink turned into an other, while he was watching from the side lines as Illya and Sergei teach the team a Russian dance. It’s going horribly, Simon has fallen on his ass twice now, but everyone is so damn happy. Illya is so damn happy. Every time their eyes lock he’s got this slanted smile on his face that makes Napoleon feel like he’s looking at the fucking sun. 

Napoleon is so damn glad the team has completely turned around on Illya, he can barely even remember there was a time were he hadn’t been a part of them. Hell, there even was a time that his presence meant a bloody game. It’s inconceivable, when Illya claps enthusiastically as one of the rookies mirrors his movements very accurately for the first time, or when Blake puts his hands to his ears any time Illya talks to him in English, as Blake had randomly decided to learn Russian, in the usual chaotic nature of goalies. 

Napoleon feels utterly and completely at rest in the midst of them, in a way he hasn’t since Raymond abandoned him — he didn’t, Napoleon knows he didn’t. But sometimes, it had felt like that — when Simon begins to drunkenly regail Illya’s legendary plays. 

“That shot man! That shot. I almost passed out, it was so perfect. The goalie couldn’t even blink.”

“Hey, that was me!” Blake interjects. “We got kicked out of the playoffs because of that shot.” 

Simon slams an arm around Blake and Illya, and tugs them closer. “Losing, winning, what does it matter when you can see the most perfect ho— hockeying— things— of your whole life— it doesn’t Blakley. It doesn’t. Accept this perfect fucker.” 

“Alright alright, at least he’s on our side now,” Blake grumbles. 

“A toast!” Simon yells. “A toast to that!” 

Drunk Illya lists towards Napoleon at the end of the night, completely happy. “They like me,” he says, words slurring a bit. “I didn’t think—“

“Of course they do,” Napoleon can’t help but say. “You are very— very likeable. You—“ 

“I am?”

Napoleon intends to punch Illya’s arm, but his hand doesn’t listen— it just gets kind of stuck there. “Yes.” 

There is this pause in the music, this breath from one beat to another where Napoleon feels like he’s falling down, slowly and forever, because Illya is so close. His skin is warm against the tips of his fingers, and he’s— he’s coming closer. His piercing blue eyes are soft now and Napoleon swears that they flicker down to his lips and—

“Caesar!” 

Napoleon blinks at the shout. When he opens his eyes again he realises he must have been mistaken. Illya is looking at his empty glass, not that close at all. 

“Captain!” 

Napoleon turns to see Simon attempt to run towards him, almost falling into three people in the process. 

“What is it?” Napoleon snaps, feeling a burst of frustration at Simon though he doesn’t know why. 

Simon is pointing to the outside, out of breath. “They found a shopping cart, in the alleyway. Blakley— Blakley is going to attempt the Hedgehog again.” 

“Shit,” Napoleon says and shoots up. 

Illya frowns between them both. “What is the Hedgehog?” 

“Injury material,” Napoleon says, while tugging on his coat, his numb fingers getting stuck in a buttonhole at his cuffs. His vision is too blurry to even attempt the zipper, so he mentally prepares for the cold. 

A hand on his shoulder stops him. “Cowboy, wait.”

There is that closeness again. Napoleon almost chokes on his tongue, his heart is beating so fast that he almost can’t hear Simon to hurry up. “Peril, I got to—“ 

“Just stand still,” Illya says, unbidden, and then frowns in a feat of concentration normally reserved for brain surgery, but all his focus is instead used on trying to close Napoleon’s coat. Impressively, it only takes him two tries, but Napoleon feels like it’s been an age when Illya finally lets him go and smiles, looking way too content with himself for Napoleon to deal with—

Well, he knows one way to deal with that but pushing Illya against the wall and kissing him until the world ends is out of the question. 

“It’s night,” Illya explains. “Cold.” 

“Yes, I know,” Napoleon says, and allows himself to be dragged away by Simon as an escape strategy. He realises half-way through the bar that he hasn’t thanked Illya so he yells, “Thank you!” over the music, and then realises that that might have been more weird than forgetting to thank him in the first place. It just seemed very important, moments ago. 

Napoleon forces the moment out of his brain and goes off to find Blake before he breaks a bone. 

———

“Gaby, are you sure we got everything.” 

“Yes.” 

“The book; the exhaust thing?”

“God you’re a disaster. Yes, we’ve got everything.” 

Napoleon paces through the shop, glad there isn’t a car or something impeding his circle space. “It’s his birthday,” Napoleon argues. 

Gaby rolls her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, I totally forgot. It’s not like you’ve been talking about it for a week.” 

Napoleon spies movement from outside the window and shushes her. “He’s coming.” 

He flicks his gaze around for something to do, a way to look natural, but before he can think of something, Illya is already standing in the doorway. 

“Sorry, traffic,” Illya says, looking a bit flushed. He nods in greeting to Napoleon but only has his eyes for Gaby. “Something wrong with Lav?” 

Like a cult leader, Gaby had quickly convinced Illya that bikes need names, and then crowned herself the right to do so. Illya, still without immunity, had agreed, and Lavender had been chosen.

Gaby steps to the side to let Illya take a look, and smiles wide. “Oh, there is certainly something, but it’s not wrong exactly.” 

Illya stalks around the bike and then freezes mid-step, eyes going from the exhaust to Gaby and back again. “You did it? But you said, it would not fit—“

“Happy Birthday, Peril,” Napoleon says, before Illya hurts his brain with all that confusion. But it doesn’t seem to help matters, as Illya’s eyes widen into shock. “What, did you think I was only going to give you a pirate hat? What kind of friend do you think I am?”

Illya’s face flashes with something — something soft — but it’s gone before Napoleon can name it, and instead Illya is shaking his head, admiring his bike a little less frantically. 

“You did not have to,” he says, eventually, “I liked first gift too.” 

Napoleon huffs a laugh, putting a hand on the back of his neck and looking away a bit, a little burst of warmth in his chest from the mirth in Illya’s eyes. “I’m glad.” 

It’s a bit of a tradition to give teammates silly gifts during the training on or around their birthday. It makes for a fun team moment, but allows closer friends to keep personal moments a bit more private. Napoleon hadn’t been sure if it was appropriate to give Illya a more personal present, but when he voiced his doubts it was almost like Gaby and Sofia had met up and practiced the look they gave him, even if they gave it at completely separate dates, and have never once met each other. 

Those two meeting? That is an interesting nightmare to think about. 

“Well, this has been fun,” Gaby declares. “But Napoleon’s insistence to get this done today has tilted me off schedule so, shoo. Go sit in the red room. Be gone.” 

“It is not room when has no walls, Gaby,” Illya tells her, but he listens anyway. 

Napoleon sends Gaby a smile over his shoulder and has to roll his eyes when she winks at him, and mouths, ‘all according to plan.’ 

But she’s right, it’s all going according to plan. Because when Napoleon steps between the curtains behind Illya, Illya already picked up the nicely packaged box that had lain on Illya’s usual spot. 

“Cowboy,” Illya says softly, turning around with a little shake of his head. “Another one?” 

Napoleon can’t help but smile a little; too proud of himself for way Illya sounds a little lost— in a positive way, it seems. “Just open it.” 

Illya does, carefully tugging the packaging paper without tearing it, and pushing the lid off the dark green box like it’s about to break. Over Illya’s shoulder, Napoleon can see the beautifully bound book being revealed, it’s cover in that same dark green, contrasting nicely with the golden inlaid title in the centre. _Thank you, Illya Kuryakin._

Illya gasps, honest to god gasps, and Napoleon is so overwhelmed with emotion that he can’t keep still any longer. 

“It’s a collection,” he says, “of personal accounts of queer hockey players, fans, or parents of queer kids, telling their story on what you mean to them. What your coming out has helped them with, bettered their teams or their coaches, or their whole lives. There are a few who’d been thinking of giving up until they read your article and— maybe it’s better if you just read it yourself.” 

Illya is completely silent, his hands flipping through the pages, occasionally stopping to read a few sentences, swallowing so loud that Napoleon can hear his throat click. When he finally turns around, there are tears in his eyes, and Napoleon has never wanted to kiss him more.

“Thank you,” Illya says, and it comes out hushed and a little broken. 

Napoleon smiles, his eyes tearing up a little himself. He feels utterly ruined in the face of Illya, looking at him like he’s the best thing in the world. He needs to get out of there before he fucks this up. This is about Illya. This is his moment. 

“I’m glad you like it. It was a project, you can see at the end who helped me with it. Mostly a few of the over-caffeinated Crow’s interns, and a fan by the name of Chimera with many a’s. She’s done a project like this before. For Raymond’s first child, binding all our congratulations and well wishes into a physical book. I didn’t really do that much, only had the idea—“ 

Illya shakes his head and— and grabs Napoleon’s hand. “ _Thank you,”_ he says again, steadier this time, but equally as intense. “Thank you, for everything.” 

Napoleon swallows hard. He feels like he’s burning up, a sudden fever sweeping through him. He nods, take a deep breath, and says, “Always,” and squeezes. “I’m going to let you read in peace now, okay? Let me know if you need anything.” 

Napoleon slips out from between the curtains, Illya’s fingers a fire trail over his skin as he lets go. He takes a quick couple of steps and bursts into the bathroom, trying to catch his breath. That was good right? That was good. 

But Napoleon realises with horrifying clarity that he’s not going to be able to keep this up. He can’t be Illya’s friend and expect not to betray himself, not to break underneath the pressure of those eyes. There is that old flash panic, coinciding with the sudden need to escape— to return to a baseline normal that doesn’t have this mine field of emotions and potential disasters. 

But Napoleon knows he won’t, no matter how much it terrifies him. No matter how much Illya terrifies him. He can’t bear the thought of running from this now, turning cold and impersonal just when he promised that he’d always be there— just after he proved to himself that he could be good to Illya. 

Because he can. He did. He’s trying. 

He’s going to fuck up eventually. That’s inevitable. The only question is how Illya is going to respond. And Gaby, damn her, might have put in the right amount of doubt in his mind, to say with complete certainty, that it will be a disaster. 

Because a little piece of him, deep inside his chest, is slowly building a very compelling case that it’s going to be anything but. 

———

**Confirmed: Illya is going to be good, y’all**

**__** _Post created by Chrimeraaaaa. 134 replies. 5329 likes._

I’ve been making a lot of call to action posts lately and you’ve responded beautifully to them all. I’ve been trying to gather as many personal accounts of what Illya’s coming out has meant to you, and I am finally able to reveal why I’ve been doing this: for Illya’s birthday, someone close to him requested to make collection of positivity, to format into a book as a gift. I’ve done many bookbinding projects, but this one I almost ruined by crying while making every single page. To preserve privacy, I’m not going to say the name of the person who instigated this, but I am allowed to say the following: it was a teammate. So if we were worried about Illya not being accepted in the team, we can now officially take a deep breath. The social media posts and statements weren’t embellished, at least one person on that team is completely supporting our boy, and I guess you’ll have many ideas about who that might be ;) Don’t ask me though, bookmakers take secrets to their graves. 

 

———

After the fairly calm and celebratory week, the team is thrown head first in their first continuous roadie, and challenges begin to appear. It starts when the bus has motor problems, so they arrive at their destination without the proper time to prepare. It’s a tight game, barely making it to a tie. Which would have been a relief, but it’s the first of a series of mishaps that set the tone for the week. The ease that had been within the team fades for snappish stress, and Napoleon has to refocus his energies to keep players from bickering on ice. It’s exhausting work, and they suffer their first consecutive loss of the season, both with a score margin of two. 

Everyone had noticed that Chimera had been doing surprisingly well after the chaos of Illya coming out, and Napoleon realises now it wasn’t just luck that had made them so successful. Maybe the whole team had been working overtime to prove the hateful and ignorant wrong, a gift to Illya no one had even voiced out loud. 

But that kind of thing isn’t sustainable, and that of pressure will only fuck you up later in the run. Napoleon is honestly kind of relieved that everything falls apart a little now. He can test the team's ability to stabilise without disastrous consequences. He needs to draw them back to what is important: one game at a time, instead of some larger ambition you can’t fail without disappointing yourself or the people watching. 

Napoleon steps back into his role of captain in a way he hadn’t had to do since the year previous; one on one conversations to keep players out of a blues, riveting pep-talks in the locker room, overly enthusiastic celebrations whenever something finally goes their way. But this time he actually means all of it. Before, he’d done all of this like more like a script than anything else, things he knew he had to do to deserve his title. But without the lingering of doubts or the occasional mood swings, he’s completely able to throw himself into the emotions, and make the team feel it too. 

And it works— better than it ever has. They close out their last away game for a little while with a 4-1 against the White Tigers, of all teams, and Napoleon will forever remember the face of Young as he realised that he’ll never be able to outclass Napoleon and Illya together. 

Curiously, Illya had been an exception to the general moroseness of the team. Napoleon had expected it all to hit the hardest for him, that the need to prove himself would rear its ugly head again. Napoleon had practiced many arguments and speeches in his mind, just in case he needed them, but he’d never seen any signs of Illya dipping. He focused on the game and played his heart out, but didn’t linger in the disappointment like the rest of the players. Instead he found a quiet place to sit, and read his book. 

The book. 

The book Napoleon had given to him. 

The first few times it had almost crushed Napoleon’s chest, seeing Illya diligently reading every page, taking notes on a little note pad and humming along with the music from cast through the bus’ audio installation. 

But it became a little less precious when Illya disappeared after every training; didn’t come to hang out with Gaby anymore; and was often seen with his head bowed over his phone, sometimes even skating away from a practice when he heard it buzz.

That’s something Napoleon usually doesn’t tolerate, but Illya had never done so before, so he assumed it must have been his mother, or something else important. And all his absences? Maybe Illya was busy with something. He’d said his oven still didn’t work, and that the company who was supposed to fix it had installed it so badly that it damaged the kitchen’s electrical grid. 

So maybe it had been that, but when Illya promptly leaves to pick up the phone in the middle of Napoleon’s post match discussion, counting up the tally to six, Napoleon has to repress the urge to yell after him, _“Your new boyfriend is not a reason to walk away Kuryakin!”_

Because that has been the crux of it, really: the reason Napoleon had been procrastinating his captaincy duties. He doesn’t really want to find out who is so important that they have Illya’s attention captured at all times. 

He continues the discussion on rote, cutting it shorter than usual, and beings to stalk the hallways for Illya, irritation like a steam rising of his steps. He goes to all Illya’s usual spots— the back of the second hallway, the little coffee area besides the conference room, he even pops his head into the bar. But zilch. He’s about to do another round of the building when someone stops him. 

“Solo.” 

Napoleon turns to see Rossforth, her arms folded and tilting her head to her office. “We need to talk.” 

Napoleon swallows his reflexive refusal and instead says, “I will be right there, I have to talk to Kuryakin first.” 

Rossforth nods, like she’d expected that. “Then it’s all the more important you come in.”

———

After he’d left Rossforth’s office a little dazed — his frustration and his selfish fears completely broken by the reality of the situation — it turns out to be easy to find Illya; he just hadn’t thought to look by the ice. 

Illya is sitting with his hands in his hair, his phone abandoned beside him on the bench, breathing deeply. As Napoleon nears, he shoots up straight, rubbing his eyes like he’s trying to hide somethin— Oh. He’s been crying. The whites of his eyes have become a little red around the edges, and his face is a bit puffy and pink, now tugged in an expression of embarrassment. 

“Peril,” Napoleon says, way too fondly, but as he does he realises that he isn’t talking him to as a captain. He’s talking to his friend. “Are you going to tell me what is going on?” 

He knows most of it already, courtesy of Rossforth. But he wants to give Illya the chance to explain it in his own words, and realise for himself that what he’s doing is slowly destroying him.

It had started with the replies, Rossforth had told him. Illya had taken upon himself to answer every single entry of the book personally, a feat that should have taken him over a year but instead he’d done in a week full of late nights and stress. After that, one of the interns had overheard him talking to someone on the phone, a College hockey player it turned out, who had been struggling with his homophobic teammates and wanted someone to talk to. Word had spread, apparently. All the phone calls Napoleon had witnessed, and probably even more he hadn’t, had been kids, players, maybe even a few in the NHL, all desperate for someone who would understand. 

Way too many for one man, and as Illya stutters through an explanation, Napoleon can see him come to the same conclusion as he talks. 

“I just want to help—“ Illya says, “Give them what I needed.”

“I know, I know,” Napoleon says, and gently wraps an arm around Illya’s shoulders. Illya leans against him immediately, like all his strings were cut the moment they touched. God, the burden he put on his own shoulders. “There are other people for that too, Peril. Organisations with numbers to call, who employ dozens, maybe hundreds, of people to take on the call.” 

“Yes,” Illya says, “but they don’t know them. They know me. They see me as— as idol. A kind of friend. I can’t— I can’t let down.” 

Napoleon takes a deep breath and tugs Illya a little closer. “I know you don’t want you. You’ve already done so much. But we’re not going to figure it out now. You need a break regardless. Tell them you’ll be unavailable for tonight, at least, they will understand.” 

There is a moment of silence, and Napoleon can _feel_ Illya’s desperation to protest in the sudden tension between his shoulder blades, but all at once he deflates, and nods, his chin brushing Napoleon’s chest. “And then?”

“Then we’re going to pick up your mother’s recipe book, you know the one she sent you for your birthday? And we’re going to my place and we’re going to cook ourselves one hell of a meal.” 

Illya leans back a little, and they’re so close— so close that Napoleon can see every line of stress and pain in his face, the purple stain of exhaustion underneath his eyes. God, he’s been so blinded by his own jealousy that he hadn’t even realised how much pressure Illya had been under. So selfishly focused on his own world. 

Whatever Illya sees on Napoleon’s face, it makes the stress pull back a little, and twitch itself in a smile— tiny, but there. 

“Come on,” Napoleon says, dragging Illya on his feet. “I’m starving.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, the last chapter is gonna be a week late but I promise it's gonna be worth it. Confessions, Dramatic kissing scene, and fluffy epilogue, all included! (I just gotta finish writing it, oh oh.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a lying liar who lies. That last chapter I was talking about? Well it's multiplying. I blame yall for getting me to write a fluff-epilogue. Sadly I won't have time next week to finish the next chapter, so I'm maintaining the every other saturday schedule for now. Hopefully all the fluff will make up for it!

Illya stretches into his chair, his hands behind his neck as he back. He looks… content, and Napoleon looks away in an attempt to temper the rush of satisfaction that brings. He’s almost done with the washing up; he puts the last plate in the washing machine and checks it closed with his hip. It gives a beep, and Napoleon is left with no distraction but the low humming as the program starts. 

No distraction from Illya. 

Illya, who has eaten his plate clean thrice over, looking like he’s a modicum of dignity away of licking the plate clean— and oh what a disgusting (or something very different) sight that would have been. 

To say the dinner had been a success would have been an understatement. The recipe book his mother had sent is fairly simple, with extremely detailed instructions on every page, like she’d known the person cooking would need them. Of course, she knows her own son, and Illya had proven quite quickly that for all his dexterity in the rink, the way he handles kitchen equipment looks like he’s a little kid for the first time on the ice. 

Napoleon had to keep him from dropping eggs _twice_ — put his hand around Illya’s arm, slip his fingers through Illya’s to whisk the egg away — and it felt like his trusty kitchen had a glitch every time Illya neared. The induction plate has never ever made that sound before, Napoleon had swore, and had send Illya to sit on a barstool from that point, forbidden to touch anything. Occasionally, Napoleon had to stand beside him so Illya could translate the English chicken scratch Illya had written under all the Russian instructions, and the feeling of him leaning over his shoulder, the breath brushing against his neck—

Uhm. Yes. Cooking thoughts. 

Except there isn’t any cooking anymore.

Illya is still lazing in the chair, looking positively delectable in his obvious satisfaction, so Napoleon flicks his gaze around him, trying to find something — anything — from this going way out of hand. 

He finds the recipe book laying off the counter corner, left open on the very first page where Illya’s mother had written something. So Napoleon carefully dries his hands and turns the book towards Illya. “What does this mean?” 

Illya blinks a couple of times, like he’s been lost in his thoughts — or like the wine is finally taking hold. Napoleon might have drunk liberally to numb his own nerves, and — not wanting to be an ungenerous host — provided Illya with the same. 

“Oh,” Illya says, taking the book from Napoleon’s hands. Their fingers brush. “It is tease. It means ‘you can finally find a husband to cook for you because you are a disaster’.” Illya reads the sentence in a neutral tone until the end, where his wine-toned cheeks flush a slight bit deeper. 

Napoleon understands, vehemently. The cooking book for a husband, to cook for Illya— _you know, that thing he just did._

Illya closes the book a little too quickly and licks his lips. He seems a little less comfortable all of a sudden. “I am sorry.” 

Napoleon feels like he’s going to shake apart from nerves, his heart is thudding so loud that he’s sure the neighbourhood thinks there is a thunderstorm outside. He does the only thing he can do: He laughs, like it was a joke, like he doesn’t see the fucking correlation, and says breezily, “Oh yes, I remember. You have a deadline. Gone on any dates yet?”

Because this isn’t one. This isn’t a date. He’s an idiot for almost making himself believe it was— for having the gall to indulge himself. It _might_ be, someday, but to think that this is it, is so selfish and presumptuous and— 

Illya shakes his head, a strange twist to his lips. “No. Not started yet. Busy.” 

_See,_ Napoleon thinks viciously. _See. This isn’t a date._ He doesn’t let the dubious pleasure of of being right show on his face. Instead he smiles sympathetically and nods. “Yeah, it’s a nightmare trying to find someone who can handle our schedules.” 

Illya looks away a bit, to no point in particular. “No match. We gone for week, then home another but late and tired. Free random days.” 

All his previous contentment has been lost to a sombreness that Napoleon wants to fucking kiss off his face. His devious hind-brain almost has him convinced this is the proper action, until Illya shrugs and says, low, “I got time for search.” 

“Hmm, true,” Napoleon says neutrally. He does. He’s got time to find someone else. Someone better. Someone who hasn’t been obsessed with him for way too long. Someone who isn’t his captain. Someone who he doesn’t have to see every day when it goes wrong. Or if he wants to leave, he will need to fucking trade. Not to mention that he’s such a controversial figure that he might have trouble finding a team. If it comes to that, Napoleon swears to himself, he’ll be the one leaving. He’s not going to let Illya ruin his life for mistakes that aren’t his. 

Illya shakes him out of his thoughts by asking abruptly, “And you? Dating?” 

Napoleon almost barks a laugh. The idea that he could be looking for anyone else is pathetically hilarious. He pushes that reaction away and tries to remain serene, calm, but he cannot help but being a little too honest. Not in the face of Illya’s still somber expression. “No, not felt the need to.” He looks away from Illya’s gaze and a soft sigh slips out. “I’m content with how my life is right now.” 

There is a silence. Then: 

“Good friends?”

Napoleon tries to take a subtle breath and just nods vaguely at Illya’s enquiry. He needs to get them away from this topic before he explodes. “More wine?” he says, already grabbing a bottle. 

“Sure,” Illya says, and Napoleon must be imagining it that he sounds a little less somber all of a sudden. 

————

It’s getting late but Napoleon is loathe to cut this evening short. Despite the awkward hiccup, his original goal to distract Illya a little seems to have worked. They’re both certainly tipsy, toeing the line towards drunk, and if Napoleon is supposed to feel guilty about that as a captain, he certainly doesn’t as a friend. 

Illya is smiling, joking, _alive._ The jittery cloud around him that Napoleon should’ve noticed earlier is finally completely gone, and Napoleon feels his own breathing comes easier at the sight. 

“One more,” Illya says, half a grin growing lopsided on his face. “Please.” 

Napoleon flicks his king over, for the third time in the last hour, and pretends to refuse. “So you can beat me again? Are you a chess champion or something?” 

Illya shakes his head a little, but the smile doesn’t let off. “Technically no, I never won high tournament.” 

Napoleon’s head snaps up and he gapes for a second. “So you did win others?” 

Illya shrugs, all nonchalant, but there is a hint of pride in his voice now. “A little.” 

“I can’t believe you,” Napoleon says, dramatising his tone to make Illya chuckle. “You’re humiliating me, you bastard.” 

“No. You are good,” Illya says, sounding a little too earnest to be genuine. 

“Don’t patronise me.” 

Illya looks like he’s trying very hard to keep his face straight, and he’s failing beautifully. “You’re a better cook.” 

Napoleon laughs. “I sure hope so.” 

Illya’s smile breaks through, unbidden, and how can a man look so damn radiant. “One more?” 

“Fine fine,” Napoleon says, like he’d have ever been capable of refusing. 

Illya begins resetting the board, but he’s interrupted when his phone buzzes. 

Napoleon frowns. “I thought you put it on silent.” 

“I did,” Illya says, reaching to grab it. “For 5 hours. Ran out.” 

Napoleon leans forward and lays a hand against Illya’s arm. “Peril,” he says softly, “You are allowed a night off. It’s important not to burn yourself out.” 

Illya freezes at the touch, hand halfway to where his phone lays. He presses his lips together, the tension immediately back. 

Napoleon realises that he can’t distract Illya forever. Illya has to make the decision to protect himself on his own, but that doesn’t mean he can’t help him get there. 

“I get that this is important to you Illya,” he starts, “but you have to realise that they will be helped as much, or maybe more, with someone who has actually studied for it. You can give them a listening ear, and supportive words from someone they respect, but you can’t be there for them 24/7, you can’t be their therapists, and you can’t solve their problems.”

“I know,” Illya says, flicking his gaze to his phone and back to Napoleon again. “But it matters, that it was me. That it is me who tells them they are okay. They are going to be okay. Because I am their idol. I did not mean to be. But I am. And that means so much. So much—“ 

The phone buzzes again, and Napoleon can feel a flinch ripple through Illya’s body. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, Napoleon reaches out to the phone. “I’ll read them, and let you know if it’s an emergency. If it isn’t, I’ll put it away for a second, okay?” 

Illya takes a shuddering breath, but after a moment he nods. 

Napoleon keeps his hand on Illya’s arm but uses the free one to pull the phone toward him. He makes sure Illya can’t see the screen and flicks through the texts. He almost sighs in relief when it’s just a schedule update from the coaches. 

“It’s about the schedule next week,” Napoleon says. 

Illya doesn’t hide his relief. He deflates at once, yet he doesn’t regain the calm contentness he’d had before.The exhaustion hadn’t been erased, far from it. It had just been temporarily kept at bay. Napoleon suppresses the urge to pull him into his arms. He stands instead, silencing the phone once more and putting it on a side table in the living room. 

Out of sight, but probably not out of mind. 

To give himself a little breather, Napoleon goes to the toilet to do his business, taking maybe a little too much care to wash his hands while mulling over what Illya had said. He understands that Illya wants to use his status as something positive, to impact people who look up to him. Napoleon respects that so much about him. But the way he'd said it, the way he looked— there is something else behind it. Something important.

When he returns, Illya has refilled his wine glass and is drinking it maybe a little too quickly. Judging the flush in his cheek and the slight tilt to his movements, he’s gone ahead and dived head first into drunk. 

Napoleon drags his chair closer to him and tries to look as attentive as he can, probably emulating Sofia a little too much. 

“Peril, what you said. Can you explain—“ Napoleon stops when Illya closes his eyes, looking a little pained. He waits, hoping the silence will draw Illya out more than talking did. 

It does.

Illya keeps his eyes shut, but eventually clears his throat, after he’s emptied his glass. “When I was little, you— was my idol. I wanted to be just like you. I had a poster of you, next to Russian stars. I watched all games, practiced all your tricks. You had youtube channel. Little videos. I learned from them. I was a fan.”

Napoleon has to work _so_ fucking hard not to make sound. He’s completely frozen. He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but Illya can’t see it anyway. The wave of emotions coursing in his chest make it almost impossible to keep listening. But he has to. He _has_ to. 

“I never met you, but I wanted to, to thank you for inspiring me. Make me keep going even if bullies on my team shoved me in locker, or said mean things. Then Olympics came and I was allowed to go. I knew you would go too, so I promised myself I would meet you. But I never did. Every time I saw you, I was too— too— starpunched.”

Napoleon wants to— run, cry, _scream._ Oh god. Jesus Christ. He could’ve had Illya. They could’ve been friends. Illya admired him. He could’ve had Illya, and he ruined it. He’d ruined the best thing he’d had without even knowing he’d had it. Napoleon feels the tell tale signs of an anxiety attack coming, but he can’t. Not now. Not _now._ He takes a shuddering breath, hoping Illya won’t notice the way the eyes keep flickering from place to place. He needs to— say something. Keep Illya talking. Keep breathing. “Starstruck?”

“Yes, yes!” Illya slurs. “That is it. I like that word. It makes sense. That was the feeling. You burned like star. And I was not brave enough. And then final came.” 

Napoleon shivers, looking down at the floor. Still moving his eyes. But he can’t look at Illya, doesn’t have the strength. The moment flashes over his vision. He’s standing on the ice. Only cared about winning. About not disappointing a whole nation. So scared of failing. He’d regretted it before, but now— Oh god. 

“Thing is, so many have said same to me. I get it. My mother fucked men for money. To survive. To give me school. Keep our lives together. It is not new. It angers me, but I am used to it. But this was you. You were _worse_. To know that you were like the bullies. I snapped.”

“Peril,” Napoleon whispers, his voice hoarse. “God, I am so sorry.”

“No, no,” Illya says, and the way he says it, so concerned— Napoleon can’t help be drawn to him again. 

“I know you did not mean, now. I know it was strategy. It was clever, like I said. I knew this about you. I knew you did that. But—“ Illya cuts off, shaking his head ruefully. “I don’t know. I did not think you would do it to me. I was so angry, betrayed, as if you were friend who hurt me. Stupid. You did not know me. But I was— I was— heartbroken. “

Napoleon is about to apologise again, a thousand times, to eternity, when the last word Illya uttered pounds into his mind. _Heartbroken. “Peril,_ you were—“

Illya interrupts him with a series of mumbled curses, but Napoleon gets the sense they’re not directed at him. Illya’s face turns pale, and he begins to rise out of his seat.

“No, Illya—“ All Napoleon’s panic, the enclosing of terror, gets erased in a singular burst of _hope._ Illya’s face— he knows that face. He knows that fear. The fear of having betrayed yourself. The fear of _rejection_. “Stay. Please. What do you mean? Did you—“

“I do not want to say. I— sorry,” Illya says, completely monotone. The horror in his expression is smoothed out in a blank slate. “I am sorry, for inappropriate action. I should not have told you. You are— captain.”

_Like hell._

“Hey, no, none of this inappropriate. Calm down, Illya, please. You know me. Forget everything about hockey, for a moment. Okay? We are friends first.” 

“I know. This ruins friendship. I can’t— I have to go.”

Napoleon grabs his wrists before he can take a single step. “It won’t. _Please._ Talk to me. Don’t run away from this.” 

Illya breaks his arms out of Napoleon’s hands, the blank slate suddenly cracking into anger, jaw twitching and face rage-red. 

And oh— Napoleon knows that too. Being scared is so much easier to cope with when lashing out, when there is something — someone — to drag with you into the avalanche of emotion. 

“You want to hear it. Force me to say?” Illya snaps, turning on his feet to loom over Napoleon. 

“Yes, I goddamn want to hear it!” Napoleon says, or maybe shouts. He might be grinning. God. They’re so close. Metaphorically and literally. So damn close. On the edge of a cliff and they just have to jump. They just have to fall. 

Illya flinches at whatever Napoleon’s face is doing now— and yes maybe he isn’t having the best reaction. Maybe he should say something. Let Illya know that there is nothing to be scared of. 

“You want to— humiliate me? Laugh at me?” Illya hisses, before Napoleon can get a word out. 

“What?” Napoleon shakes his head so viciously that he becomes dizzy with a rush. “No! Christ! Peril, listen to me. I—”

Illya doesn’t let him speak, he puts a hand against Napoleon’s chest and pushes him against the table. Crowding him in. And oh, this is so much like the ice. Like their fights. The same pulsing of frustration, of _desire_ — God. How had he ever _missed_ this. It’s so obvious now. It wasn’t only him, his conflicting feelings pulsing through his body every time they touched. 

Illya wanted him too, back then. 

“You broke my heart in Olympics, but in Captain rush, it fixed,” Illya growls. And now— you are my friend, and you are kind and— but you don’t— you hated me—“

“I never hated you, oh my God,” Napoleon says, laughing. There is moisture in his eyes and his face hurts from smiling. 

Illya stops short. He seems so confused and lost. His breathing stutters in uneven staccato and looks about two seconds from bolting. Napoleon steps in closer, putting a hand on Illya’s chest as well. Their hearts thudding in the same racing tempo. 

“You’re so dead wrong, Peril,” Napoleon says in a rush, trying to temper his smile. Illya needs him. Illya _wants_ him. “Please, breathe for me. You look like you’re about to pass out— yes, that’s good. There you go. And now fucking kiss me. I have been waiting for yea—“

Napoleon never gets the chance to finish that sentence— he does not mind. 

———

In the moments Napoleon had let himself fantasise about this — shame wrought and _wanting_ — it had always been the same: impulsive, quick, forceful, maybe even aggressive. It would start in a locker room, or in a club. It would be bruising and harsh and _beautiful._ Illya pushing him against walls, marking him, _taking_ him. 

He should have known it would be nothing like that. For all the blood spilled between them, Illya has shown over and over again that he is no harsh person. That he only has to be, sometimes. 

And yet, Napoleon is overwhelmed with surprised delight and a great heaping of emotion, when after that first, _desperate,_ kiss, Illya becomes soft. He melts against Napoleon, one hand cradling Napoleon’s jaw while he gently, ever so gently, continues the kiss. It’s deep, slow and all encompassing, Napoleon has to clutch his hand in Illya’s shirt to hold on for dear life, while he’s swept away by every pulsing wave of Illya’s touch. 

He follows Illya’s lead until Illya turns them around, pushing himself up against the table and pulling Napoleon close to trap him against it. Napoleon shudders, overtaken by this gesture of trust, and kisses Illya insistently, losing the rhythm each time Illya makes a contented noise in his mouth. 

If Napoleon had any hope of pacing himself, it’s lost right then and there. It’s so easy, so real, to take Illya by the wrist and drag him to the bedroom. Nothing like his stupid fantasies, as they enjoy each other in complete softness, gentle touch and flushed laughter. Napoleon will never tire of how his name sounds in Illya’s voice— hoarse, ruined and so goddamn happy. 

_I love you_ , Napoleon thinks, with every kiss, every touch. _I love you,_ Napoleon doesn’t say, not just yet, but he hopes Illya can feel it between them. Building and building, like a radiant sun. It’s a light Illya reflects in the way his fingers linger, trace Napoleon’s skin like he wants to imprint the paths into his memory. The radiance shines too, in the expressions between each breath, like Illya can’t believe this is real either, and is ‘starpunched’ every time he realises it is. 

He’s not going to say it out loud, not just yet. But he knows he will. He’ll slip up. He won’t be able to keep silent long, but where normally that would release a volley of terror, now the prospect is met with a little excitement, too. Because Illya has made over two years of longing burst with a confession of his own, so Napoleon can’t help but think that if he were to slip up and say the words, that someday he’ll hear it back. 

By the time they’re catching their breath, both floating on a cloud of exhaustion and contentment, Napoleon’s face hurts from smiling and he’s sure the moisture on his cheeks isn’t sweat. Every time he looks at Illya’s face, his eyes tear up a little more— but hey, he’s got the right to feel a bit emotional about this. It’s been a long wait. 

Illya either doesn’t mind or notice that Napoleon has regressed to the sappiest person alive. He’s constantly switching between closing his eyes and opening him again with a flash, searching out Napoleon before letting them fall closed again. 

_I’m still here,_ Napoleon wants to say, but exhaustion is dragging him down as much as Illya’s is, and the most he can do before darkness takes him, is wrap his hand tightly around Illya’s wrist. 

There is a movement beside him, Napoleon notices vaguely, an undetermined amount of time since his consciousness fell away. A rush of — _is he leaving? Is he leaving? Is he leaving?_ — almost wakes him up fully until he feels something warm and heavy being draped across his chest, and then the tickle of something soft under his nose. Napoleon breathes in and sighs happily, crowding the warmth closer and falling back into a dreamless sleep. 

———

Napoleon wakes in slow increments, noticing the world around him one sense at the time. He’s warm, his skin feels hot on one side and a little less on the other. There is something pressing around his waist, and his breathing — slow and deep — is being shadowed, like it’s echoing— or as if there is someone else in his bed, close, holding him. 

Illya. 

Napoleon’s breath stutters, memories click back into place and take the haze of sleep away. Illya— he— they— Holy Fuck. 

He doesn’t think it’s a dream. Illya feels too solid; he can hear the soft thrum of a heartbeat under his ear, it’s picking up with speed which means—

Napoleon opens his eyes and cranes his head up, brushing his cheek across Illya’s bare chest as he does so. Illya is looking down at him, flushing scarlet when their eyes meet, but he doesn’t look away. He seems well rested. There is a brightness in his eyes, but it’s dimming a little as he’s searching Napoleon's face for something. The arm across Napoleon’s waist is loose, like he wants to give Napoleon the opportunity to slip out. Like he’s afraid Napoleon feels trapped. 

Napoleon knows not to let time feast on doubts for too long, so he reaches into the ecstatic mess his mind has become and fuels his smile with all of it. Too wide and too honest for the camera’s— it probably doesn’t even look good. Napoleon would have never shown himself like that before Illya, but he does it _for_ Illya. And the embarrassment that he expected never comes. He just feels so goddamn happy. 

“Good morning, Peril,” Napoleon rumbles, his voice cottoned with sleep. The way the nickname slips off his tongue feels different now— sweeter, like he’s always meant it but never dared to show it.

The hesitance in Illya’s features disappears immediately and the arm around his waist tightens, like it had been a hardship not to. Napoleon snuggles in closer and makes a contented sound when another arm joins the first. 

Napoleon feels a gentle press on the top of his head and he smiles into Illya’s skin. 

“Good morning,” Illya says, eventually, adding sounding a bit dazed, “Cowboy.”

Napoleon hums and lets his smile turn into a kiss, trailing up from Illya’s chest to his neck and then finally his lips. Illya responds at once, kissing back with a strange mix of urgency and reverence, like he’s still in complete awe that he’s allowed. The expression that crosses Illya’s face makes Napoleon’s heart ache. He puts his forehead to Illya’s, closing his eyes for a moment. 

He’s overwhelmed, but in the best way possible, and it seems like Illya is feeling the exact same way. He never thought—

“The best,” Napoleon whispers— light, but meaning it, like a promise. “The best morning.” 

The way Illya kisses him after makes clear that he’s understood. 

————

They nap through the early hours of the morning, occasionally slipping out of bed to go to the bathroom or brush teeth, but inevitably ending up back again— not for sexual reasons, though Napoleon certainly wouldn’t have minded that either, but more for the intimacy of it. 

They don’t talk much, but the silence doesn’t seem oppressive. To Napoleon it’s processing time. He might have had many pining wishes about scenarios like this but he never really thought it would happen. Only recently, as their friendship evolved, Napoleon realised how easy it would be to take another step, how little actually would change: he sees Illya almost every day but even through the days they don’t work, they end up seeking each other out. 

However much this feels like the upending of Napoleon’s entire world, in practice there won’t be much change— only expansion on what was already there. 

The thought helps only a little with the ever present anxious thoughts that now have gladly taken on these recent developments as their new pet project, but it’s easy not to step into the whirlpool when Illya is literally right beside him confirming with every touch that his fears aren’t true. Illya wants this, wants them, and probably has for a little while. He’s just been too blinded by his own worries to see it. 

Napoleon makes sure to keep being tactile, even as they move to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. The training starts in another four hours, so they don’t have to hurry, but Napoleon knows that they’ll have to sit down and really talk about this before they are thrown back into the rhythm of their professional lives. 

He hopes his silence now isn’t making Illya doubt his intentions, it’s just that he needs it to sort through the mess in his mind. He knows that the happiness he’s feeling now can turn into something else real quick if he messes this up now. The fear of losing this is already lapping at his heels and only certainty— or as much certainty as they can get at this point — will keep it away. 

Illya doesn’t seem bothered at the lack of conversation, or at least not yet. He responds with a smile when Napoleon slides up behind him, looking over his shoulder as he attempts not to burn an omelet. Normally Napoleon would have made a joke about it, but as the thought appears he feels a shoot of panic— what if Illya takes it the wrong way? Then it might escalate to their first fight as a couple already and that is just— Wait are they even a couple? Should he have made that clear earlier or is it already too lat—

Napoleon cuts off the stream of thoughts and kisses Illya’s shoulder instead, hoping that the sentiment will come over regardless if he doesn’t have the words for it yet. 

This isn’t the first time something like this happened with Illya present. The last time it had been a call from some sort of solicitor, uncovering yet another of Dad’s frauds. The persistent lawyer hadn’t even listened to Napoleon trying to explain that his father had died. 

The lawyer hadn’t believed him, because dear old dad had left Napoleon’s contact information behind instead of his own, leading the bureaucratic bastard to conclude he was speaking to a quite alive criminal. 

Napoleon hadn’t known how the damn lawyer had gotten his personal number and that in itself had been enough to trigger another stream of whirlpools. 

Illya had looked so shocked when Napoleon’s mouth had run away with him and he’d insulted the lawyer three generations into his family. After that Napoleon had promptly shut down. He hadn’t responded to Illya’s worried inquiries, and the worry probably would have turned into frustration if Gaby hadn’t cut in between them and drew Illya away. 

Silence, so often, saves him from saying things he doesn’t actually want to say, Napoleon had explained to Illya later. 

But silence isn’t often an option in his line of work. The pressure to respond to invasive and unexpected questions by journalists hadn’t helped his already impulsive verbal nature— something Sofia drew back to his youth. In his home life, Napoleon had never really felt free to say anything, scared it would betray something about him that his father would disapprove of, but instead of silence he’d bullshitted his way through all conversations, trying to distract his father with too much information instead of letting him draw his own conclusions from Napoleon’s words. 

Impulsivity became the price, silence the solution— though only with people he trusts. 

“If I’m silent around you, that means I trust you,” Napoleon had said, not looking at Illya but knowing this conversation needed to happen. “It means I’m not worrying about all the things you might think of me while I’m not distraction you with words. It gives me time to actually think about what I want to say, and to say it well, instead of regretting it like I normally do.” 

Napoleon hopes dearly that Illya remembers that conversation, and the confirmation comes when Illya gently envelopes him in a hug and says, “All time you need.” 

Napoleon takes a deep breath, the last of his worries slipping away at Illya’s earnesty, and he nods. “Almost, I think.” 

Illya squeezes his shoulder. 

They sit down across from each other at the dining table, but Illya immediately tangles their legs together, pressing as close as the glass between them allows. His smile is soft, no longer inhibited by the hesitance that had lingered this morning, and Napoleon realises that maybe the silence had done Illya some good as well. 

They’d been completely fine going through a morning routine that is completely new to them, yet they hadn’t needed a single word to make it happen. Napoleon had just known to boil water as well as making coffee, because Illya tends to have both when he’s at the shop. And Illya had just known how to prepare both their protein shakes, only asking Napoleon a simple question about where the large glasses had been located, which Napoleon then procured for him. 

Napoleon looks at Illya— really takes him in, and realises with a sudden certainty that they can do this. They have an opportunity together and they will take it. Illya wants this as much as him, Napoleon knows that now, and Napoleon cannot wait to give Illya that same certainty: the absolute certainty that they’re going to be alright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, that's my spin on fluff. Angst in a healthy communication jacket ;p. I think it's adorable. I'm fucking moving next week so my brain is a big Ahhhhhh atm. Also I'm posting the first chapter of tgo tomorrow, so even Bigger AHHH. Any comments yall wanna donate are appreciated, though it might take a little before I can reply to them with the attention they deserve. Do know that I read and reread them Constantly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short chapter, I thought I'd have the time to finish the final chapter but it turns out I only had just enough to edit up this scene. Down below there will be more yelling about The Move but for now: not having a fridge Really Sucks.

“So,” Napoleon says, “I know we have to talk about this— no, I want to talk about this. I don’t want that terrible dating limbo where no one really knows what is happening and everything can just—“ Napoleon stops himself, takes a breath.

Illya nudges against him, encouraging. His gloved hand brushes Napoleon’s between them. They’re sitting on a secluded bench in a park nearby Napoleon’s house, deciding that having something physical to do is preferable than just sitting on a couch and staring at each other. And Napoleon likes the idea of this becoming their thing— taking a walk to talk about things that need to be said. It gives him a peace of mind to have a routine to that, even though he’s probably thinking a little too deeply into the future. 

“You want to be,” Illya says, or asks; it's kind of unclear. “You want to date me.” 

Napoleon snorts, smiling a little despite himself. “I want a little more than that.” 

“Good,” Illya says, “me too.” 

Napoleon takes another deep breath. He suddenly needs to say it— to have it be a conscious choice and not a slip up. Not a fuck up. No matter what happens: being honest can’t be a mistake. Sofia has tried to drill that into his skull for years. 

“I love you,” Napoleon says, _finally._ The words feel like electricity in the air and he can’t hold the lightning back any longer. “I’m in love with you. And I know that it’s entirely too early to say and I don’t expect you to feel the same right now but it’s the truth and I don’t want to hide it anymore. I’ve been hiding it for a long time.” 

Illya looks— he looks—

Shocked, that’s one word for it. But it doesn’t feel right, doesn’t quite fit with the way his expression looks so unbelieving but hopeful at the same time. Shock also doesn’t explain the smile that’s now growing and the way he’s pressing his eyes closed with a shuddering breath. 

It doesn’t explain Illya’s hand holding onto Napoleon like a lifeline. 

“Cowboy,” Illya says, in that same tone of voice he’d used when receiving the book, or like he sounded this morning, when they woke up. “How long?”

Napoleon chuckles a little, shaking his head. “It’s embarrassing, really.” 

“No, no,” Illya murmurs, leaning a little closer, twining their fingers together. 

Despite the secluded area, they’re in public, so there is a limit to the intimacy they can engage in safely, without risking someone recognising them. Napoleon is both resentful and relieved by the limitations, as Illya looks like he wants nothing more than to kiss him, and that will derail this conversation entirely. 

Napoleon finally catches up with his own thoughts— Illya wants to kiss him. He sees it in the way his eyes flick to his lips. Illya wants to kiss him after Napoleon confessed to being in love with him the morning after their first kiss. 

The certainty surges again— kept momentarily at bay by the thoughts of Illya running away screaming at hearing the truth. 

Napoleon laughs under his breath. He’d known that that wasn’t going to happen, but this— 

Illya is shocked, yes, but he’s also delighted. Like he can’t believe what he’s hearing but not because he’s disturbed but because he wanted to hear it, but never thought he would. 

Oh. 

“You love me,” Napoleon’s traitorous lips say— pushing the realisation into the cold air between them without his permission. 

Illya shakes his head, exasperated, looking fond as he does it. He’s smiling. “You look too surprised, Cowboy,” he says, and bites his lip. “I thought I had said my secret yesterday. And then in the night, when we—” he flushes a little, looking entirely too adorable. “I thought you knew.” 

“I—“ Napoleon says, mouth dry. “I knew you wanted me. I knew you liked this— us— I hoped, maybe someday, someday soon, that would become something more.” 

Illya looks away and clears his throat. “It already was.” 

“Wait,” Napoleon says, breathless, pieces finally clicking into place. “You already loved me? How long? Since when? You said you had a crush— but that isn’t the same thing and I ruined it in the Olympics so—“ 

Illya interrupts him with a squeeze of his hand. His smile turns a little mischievous as he says, “I asked first.” 

“You bastard,” Napoleon groans, but he can’t help but smile back. “Why do I have to go first?’ 

“It’s the rule,” Illya informs him. “Who ask first get answer first.” 

“I didn’t sign that contract,” Napoleon says. 

“You did.” 

“When?” 

Illya’s eyes twinkle, though his face becomes serious— yet falsely so. Like a parody of the expression he pulls when the suits come along. Napoleon feels a little too proud about the fact that he can catch the difference. 

“Yesterday,” Illya tells him, “When you kissed me.”

Napoleon rolls his eyes. “That’s not how contracts work Peril and besides, you kissed me first.”

“Because you told me to,” Illya counters. 

“Still counts,” Napoleon teases, poking Illya in the chest to punctuate his point.

Illya growls a little, and he grabs Napoleon’s hand in quick reflex, trapping it between his own. His cheeks are more flushed than they were and he’s suddenly very close. “Cowboy either you talk or I am going to kiss you now and do not care who sees.” 

Napoleon swallows a sound that really wouldn’t help matters and nods, trying to seem as earnest as he can be. But he can’t help but add, once Illya has sit back a little, “if this is going to be the new threat to make me stop annoying you, it’s only going to get much worse.”

“Cowboy,” Illya groans, looking up with a long suffering sigh. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Napoleon chuckles. “It’s just fun to rile you up sometimes.” 

“You have not changed,” Illya says, with an overly resigned air. 

Napoleon raises an eyebrow. “Would you want me to?” 

“No,” Illya’s reply is immediate. “I fell in love with annoying-you. It is my own fault.” 

“Oh God,” Napoleon says, shivering despite the sudden warmth that passes through his body. “You can’t just say that. I’m—“ 

“Aww,” Illya coos, “Cheeks so red. It’s cute.” 

“This is going to be a disaster.” Napoleon shakes his head, but keeps a smile on his face to make sure it’s obvious he doesn’t mean it. 

Illya laughs, and nods faux-seriously. “Yes. Cute disaster.” 

“I hate you.” 

“You don’t,” Illya says gleefully. “Now tell me when, please.” 

“Fine.” Napoleon shakes his head with a huff of laughter, but the moment he takes a breath to continue he feels a hint of trepidation that only grows and grows. It feels strange to stand on the precipice of this— this cavern of secrets that he’s only ever brought to light in Sofia’s office, or to Gaby’s listening ear. Somehow they seem smaller now, with Illya so close next to him. Yet small things can be terrifying to say. 

Napoleon takes another breath. Illya doesn’t push him. He’s never pushed him. He’s always just been there— patient. Listening. 

Napoleon can do this. It’s time. 

“I don’t know exactly when it became— this. I’ve always found you attractive, even if I didn’t always acknowledge that fact. It kind of scared me, maybe, to have something to do with that part of me coinciding with hockey. It was easier to just let you distract me from the nothingness, to blame the desire I felt as some side effect of the adrenaline our games brought. But then Captain’s rush happened.” 

Napoleon bites his lip. His eye catches a bird landing on the ground, pecking around for food. His hand is warm in Illya’s. The flap of wings of the bird as it hops up and leaves, becomes the cue to continue. 

“I don’t think I can ever explain to you how important your actions were that night. I never had anyone listen to me like that before, I never told anyone what I told you, and you reacted so differently, to what I expected. At that time I wanted someone to— I don’t know — shout at me until I stopped being lazy. To _fix_ me, because I couldn’t do it myself. But you listened, and you _cared._ I didn’t care about myself back then, and so that kind of broke my denial about you. To be cared about by you, even in such a small and human way… it changed things. Even though I didn’t realise it then, but it wasn’t only desire I felt for you from that point on.” 

Napoleon feels like he’s stepping away from himself. Like there had been a script in his mind for this exact moment, being written and rewritten in his subconscious until the day finally came. It almost feels easy now he’s started. He doesn’t have to think about it. 

“But I was too fucked up to accept it,” Napoleon says, honest and raw. “Both what I felt for you and the idea that what I was feeling was worth any sympathy at all. I lashed out. I tried to break it before it broke me. I think I thought it would be easier to have you hate me than pity me.” 

“I did not pity you,” Illya says. His voice is soft but strong— like he didn’t want to interrupt, but couldn’t help but speak. “Never. I understood you.” 

“God Peril,” Napoleon says, turning towards him, meeting his eyes for a moment but flickering down to where their hands are joined. “I know that now. That’s why it meant so much. I just needed someone to understand. And then you refused to let me ruin it again. You pulled me out of that self destructive spiral, just by treating me with the respect I didn’t have for myself.” 

“I spoke to a friend soon after, started to go to therapy, found Gaby, connected better with the team. I started to fix my life. It was hard work, and sometimes the void just swallowed me whole, but the memories of your support and the little moments on the ice that we saw each other, they just meant so much.” Napoleon clears his throat. He watches, mesmerised, as his thumb starts to caress over Illya’s fingers, completely of its own accord. 

“I started to notice more about you,” Napoleon confesses, “now that I wasn’t blinded by the denied desire and projected frustration. I realised that the way you treated me shouldn’t have been a surprise, because that’s the person you _are_. You listen, you respect, you _care._ That’s just your personality, and the fact that I hadn’t seen it before was because of my actions, not yours.” 

Napoleon takes a breath and suddenly knows he can’t look away from this anymore. He looks at Illya, who meets his eyes steadily. His blue pupils are almost ice-like, contrasted by a slight red around them. His breath hitches a little and Napoleon shudders to meet it. It’s almost poetic, both of them struggling to breathe together, drowning in the emotion of the moment.

Napoleon’s throat threatens to close up but he doesn’t let it. He draws Illya’s hands to his chest and speaks, his voice as strong as he can make it:

“I want to make that clear. I didn’t fall in love with you because you fixed me. You didn’t. You helped me see an alternative path and you were an important support to me, but what you did for me wasn’t why I fell in love. I fell in love with you for who you are, and by the time you joined the team I only found more and more reasons to love you.”

Illya is quiet for a moment— or at least he is by voice. He isn’t in body. It’s like they’re in a dramatic scene at the end of a cheesy movie; everything seems like it’s in slow-motion, Napoleon can see how each of his words hit Illya one by one, his expression changing in microscopic ways. Disbelief, surprise, delight, hope. All of them form a mosaic that has Napoleon almost reach out and kiss him. 

Instead he waits, and gives Illya the time that he’s always given Napoleon. 

Illya swallows a couple of times, and then takes a very deep breath. He looks away only to look back again, too quickly to be natural— like he was afraid Napoleon would disappear in that split second. 

Napoleon can’t help but smile a little. He hopes it comes off as encouraging, but in truth the sudden burst of happiness has a slightly selfish edge. Illya looks like he doesn’t know how to handle this much praise; as if no one has ever told him things like this before. And Napoleon cannot help but be a little glad for the exorbitant privilege to be the one who is allowed to — _wanted_ to— from now on. 

“So,” Illya says— or croaks — eventually. A flush blooming on his cheeks, “Years? It was years?” 

Napoleon huffs fondly, but he allows the redirect. They’ll have enough time later to practice on this. “Yeah, two years at least. I thought it wouldn’t matter. We saw each other so little anyway, so it was more of a pleasant thought I had every once in a while, something different than the stress of therapy or the numbness of hockey. It was more a fantasy than anything real, but you being here solidified it, and made it _so much worse_.”

“I didn’t know,” Illya says, shaking his head. He looks a little lost. “Sometimes, there were moments, where I thought— but I never believed. I never thought you want me like that. Maybe sex, but not more. I hoped we be friends, that would be enough.” Illya shakes his head. “I was stupid. I wanted more. I was jealous of Gaby, so jealous. I was angry at— at _me_ for not being grateful. You are such good friend, Cowboy. Selfish of me not be happy with that. Selfish to think… maybe someday—“ 

“You deserve more, Peril,” Napoleon says. “You deserve everything, everything you want. I mean that.” 

Illya snaps into stillness, looking Napoleon in the eyes in an almost calculating way— like he’s trying to see how much Napoleon meant that. Whatever he sees, makes him take a deep, shuddering breath and say: “We need go home.” 

Napoleon smiles wide. “Temptation to strong?” 

“Come,” Illya huffs, and tugs Napoleon off the bench. 

Napoleon falls into his hurried steps, slipping his hand in Illya’s pocket, holding his hand surreptitiously as they walk out of the park. 

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Napoleon muses, when they reach the start of Napoleon’s driveway. “How long was it for you?” 

Illya keeps his eyes steady in front of him, but doesn’t let go of Napoleon’s hand. “It did not go.” 

“What?” 

“I told you,” Illya says. “I had crush, you broke it, but I could not let go. I turned young love into anger, but I was only pretending. I did see your good sides. I was not blinded. I knew person you were, only not to me. It hurt. I thought I loved someone who hate me. Captain’s rush was just you, and I was allowed to be there with you. But then that night I realised you were more than I thought. That you had problems I knew. I wanted to help, but you were not ready. I knew you better after that— not the angry you, not the perfect you. The whole you. It made me love more. I thought that would be all, but then I had the excuse to come closer. It was stupid, but I wanted it. A friend that understood. I thought I could hide it, I was used to it. But then you—“ 

Illya stops for a breath, hurried words stumbling into a stop for the sudden need for oxygen. But once he continues, his speech becomes calmer— more precise. Napoleon feels utterly hypnotised. 

“You were more perfect than I thought. Even when you were not, it still was. It doesn’t make sense. Love doesn’t make sense. It grew and grew and grew. But I realised. It is the same too, from when I was young, it never left, just became more. It will only become more.” 

Once again, Illya has rendered him speechless. Once again, Illya said exactly what Napoleon needed to hear. It’s truly become a habit.

Luckily the door is only a few paces away and Napoleon doesn’t need words to explain how he feels. Illya responds in kind, voiceless yet loud. It is such a privilege to understand each other through touch. 

Such a privilege to know that Illya hears him. 

Illya listens. He always does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes. I hope this Communication and Fluff makes up for the fact that y'all will have to wait even more. I am hoping I can finish it up next week, but my trackrecord hasn't been great with predicting when I'll have time. I'm not gonna let yall wait more than two weeks tho, that I swear. If it's actually the last chapter? I have no clue. 
> 
> About the move: the fridge came 5 days late and then it also was Broken and Aaaaaaaahhhh but everything is fixed now and I've eaten enough veggies and fruit not to have scurvy, probably. My place still isn't completely done, which is Bothering me, but I guess I'll have to make do. Hopefully it's finished enough to focus on writing lmao. 
> 
> Tgo is def coming tomorrow, I have to edit through it a bit so it might be in the evening for me, but I'm super looking forward to posting it. Also if I haven't replied to your comments yet from last week's cold chapter, that's also On The To Do List, TM. 
> 
> pro tip: when moving, expect not to be able to do anything for at least a month. Much simpler that way.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Happy Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> efhfhjdffhjdfjdhdsjh It's Done. I can breathe again.

“Napoleon, good to see you. It’s been a little while.” 

It’s true. The hockey season has ramped up with both trainings, games and various events, certainly now that Illya decided to put his efforts into building a hockey-specific support group instead of burdening that responsibility himself. Raymond and his team have already made sure that the proceeds of Making Space will be allocated specifically to such projects, instead of going into the general pot. 

Napoleon makes sure at least one of the other players tags along to these events. Both out of PR pressure to show their support, and because he knows that Illya doesn’t like to be alone with those things. Blake has been an absolute blessing with the younger queer kids they’ve met, and surprisingly Sergei seems one of the more eager volunteers. 

Napoleon smiles at Sofia and sits down. “Yes, I haven’t had much free time lately.” 

“This isn’t hindering you?” Sofia asks. “If scheduling is an issue we can look for a more flexible approach, I can free up space on other days or we can make a telephone appointment.” 

“No, I haven’t had as much of a need,” Napoleon says honestly. “There have been developments.” 

Napoleon gives her a quick run down of the last few weeks— from the surprising confession to the slow development of their relationship. And that’s what he can call it— a relationship. Illya Kuryakin is his _boyfriend_ , and has been for the last three weeks. 

“Gaby knows,” Napoleon tells Sofia before she can ask. “I’ve called Raymond about it too. He’s invited us all up to his place for Christmas. Gaby is joining too, now that her girlfriend is gone, so I hope that that lessens the pressure a little for Illya.” 

“Do you feel like such an event is too soon?” Sofia asks. “You seem to imply so.” 

Napoleon shrugs, and leans back into his chair. “I think some people might see it that way, but I don’t think so. Raymond is important to me but I don’t think it has the same cultural markers as meeting my parents would be, if they were alive. I’m just eager for them to meet, I guess.” 

“That’s understandable,” Sofia says, and makes a note. “It has been quite the eventful time for you and I sense that you’ve been happy, but have you had any changes with the fear of losing such happiness? Last time we saw each other that was your major issue.” 

Napoleon nods, and takes a moment to consider his words. “I’ve thought a lot about what you said. I talked about it with Illya too. We’ve had many conversations actually. I wanted to make sure we didn’t go in blind on all of this. Illya has been on the periphery of my recovery process for a long time but now that he’s actually involved with me, I think that it’s important he knows where I’m coming from.” 

“That is a big step forward for you, Napoleon.” 

“Yeah, I suppose it is,” Napoleon says, he puts his hand to the back of his neck and lowers his eyes a little. A soft chuckle slips out of him, and he feels a blush blooming on his cheeks as he says, “ Just— I trust him. I trust him to understand or at least try to. I think that’s what I missed when I was worrying so much about being in love with him— the way he already was a partner to me, albeit in a more platonic context. We’d been growning closer together despite all my worries, almost without noticing. We joke about it, that we’ve been dating for an undefinable amount of months already but were just too stupid to put a word to it.” 

Sofia laughs. “I’m glad to hear that. Where are your anxiety levels right now? What worries you most?” 

“I think I’m always going to be afraid of doing something to sabotage the life I have now. But it’s background noise, something that doesn’t inhibit me much and when it does I know how to handle it. I think what made those fears flare up recently was the uncertainty— my mind could run away with me on catastrophically scenarios that only got worse and worse. The clarity I have now makes it easier to see those imaginations as false, and if I really aren’t sure I can check with Illya. Test my assumptions against the real thing, you know?” 

Sofia nods. She seems, strangely proud, like he’d said exactly what she wanted to hear. “That sounds like really healthy communication. I believe it will help the both of you, not only because of your anxiety but just the relationship in general. There are a lot of couples in my personal circles that I wish learned the importance of talking out assumptions, instead of letting them fester.” 

“Yeah, it’s been… pretty easy so far. I think that’s also something that scares me. On bad days I’m just waiting for it to explode in my face— but I talked to Illya about that too, and he said something I really like.” Napoleon smiles as he remembers the moment, the way Illya had looked at him so earnestly. “He said that we’re not made of dynamite. That if there is something going wrong it won’t just suddenly destroy all we have. We can notice it before it cripples us, address the injury before we have to be benched for months. “

Sofia raises her eyebrows, her lips twitch. “Oh I like that one, I might steal it from him some day.” 

“He’ll be smug about that.” 

“It’s truly a really good point,” Sofia says, nodding to herself. “People who deal with anxious thoughts tend to imagine potential coming situations as being completely out of their control. This can be a self fulfilling prophecy— where the anxious person notices a red flag but instead of addressing it, escalate the situation by remaining passive, or escaping the situation. It’s good that Illya picked up on this, and gave you a perspective that puts control back into your hands— for the both of you.” 

“Yeah, I think that’s exactly why I liked it so much,” Napoleon says, the pieces falling together as he speaks. “It reminds me that things don’t just happen _to_ me, but happen _with_ me in some way. Either because of my actions or my inactions, I might not have complete control of any situation, but not having the total control doesn’t mean I don’t have any.” 

“Yes, I agree,” Sofia says, her head tilting to the side as she lets a silence fall. Napoleon appreciates the pause. He’d been kind of running through all his thoughts at high speed, and only realises he needed a moment of quiet when she gave him one. A minute or so passes, and Napoleon takes a breath. By the time Sofia speaks up again, he’s ready to handle her gently asked question. 

“So, now that you know you are at least partly responsible for your upcoming situations, how does that make you feel?” 

“I think it stresses me out less than I thought it would. We’ve had a good start. There isn’t something I feel ashamed about, something I need to hide. This responsibility doesn’t feel like something I’ll inevitably fail at— it feels the same as when I realised that it was my own responsibility to push myself out of my depression,” Napoleon tells her. His mind flashes through all the conversations Illya and him have had, including the first disastrous one at the bar, and finally sees how far they’ve come. How far he has come. 

“It’s my own responsibility to take care of myself,” he continues, “to make myself as happy as I can, and this relationship is now just a part of that. Something I have to work on, something that could fail but doesn’t have to— and more importantly, something that could be recovered if it does.” 

Sofia smiles wider than she usually does. “That’s such a good statement, and indicative on how much you have grown these last years.”

Napoleon laughs a little, “I think I just realised that. Been a long time coming. There are still things I need to work on, but yeah, I’ve been doing much better.” 

Sofia hums in agreement. “One the stressors with Illya was the idea that he holds so much of your happiness. This happiness has expanded, so has this worsens the power you think he has over you as well?” 

Napoleon gives himself a pause this time, considering the question in all perspectives. He doesn’t know how long he takes to think but Sofia doesn’t push him. At some point he just opens his mouth and it all comes streaming out in one go. 

“No, I don’t think so. Of course the idea of this relationship ending at any point in the future will be a huge blow to me, but I think that if the worst happened, I’d be able to deal with it better than I thought. 

I was scared of losing the progress I had, and I kind of put Illya unfairly on the pedestal for all that happiness. I’m happy because of Illya, but I’m also just happy because of myself. I listen to myself better, I know my own boundaries better. I let myself be honest to the people around me. Breaking up will certainly rock my stability for some time, but I’ve dragged myself back to shore once, I think I can do it again.” 

Napoleon takes a deep breath at the end— he feels strangely light somehow. He reflects on everything he’d said and realises he believes every single word of it. A wave of emotion crashes over him and he smiles. 

He notices Sofia watching him patiently and he nods at her. “You can continue, it was good to get all that out, but I know you still have some questions.” 

Sofia nods back, “On the risk of sounding repetitive, you’ve again shown a lot of progress by saying all that. We might get back to it later, but I don’t have much to add. So, to continue: I assume you’ve spoken about the issue of publicising the relationship?” 

“Yeah, for now we’ve decided to keep it to close friends until Christmas at least. I don’t like keeping it from the team, but it does give us some breathing space during hockey. I love the guys but them knowing would probably make me hyper aware of our interactions on ice.” 

“Secrecy doesn’t?”

“No, not anymore. We decided that if it leaks it leaks, we’re going to try to keep it between us until we’re ready for it, but you can never predict when a paparazzi pops up at the wrong moment. We find dealing with that fall out preferable than devolving into paranoia about how close we’re allowed to stand.” 

Sofia sets her notebook aside and stands to grab a mug, she sends Napoleon a questioning look and he nods. She goes through the motions of making tea for them both, and Napoleon realises that this might be her way to breathe space into her thoughts. Something physical to do while her mind gets everything in line.

“I’ve only handled cases where the secrecy of a relationship is for an interpersonal reason,” she begins once the boiler turns off again. “ a disapproving parent, for example. But I think secret relationships for any reason tend to fail because of that paranoia— the fear of being found out overshadows the positive relationship. But you’ve communicated that the reveal isn’t the end of the world. And you’ve already got a mental map of your relationship together with the unexpected reveal, many couples try not to think about the worst case scenario until it happens, leaving them completely unprepared when it does.”

She reaches towards him with the mug and Napoleon carefully takes it between his hands. He smiles at her in thanks. 

“Yeah we’ve talked about it. I talked it through with Raymond too. There aren’t any rules against us being in a relationship— either because they forgot that that was an option or because they don’t care, we don’t know. But that doesn’t mean they won’t push against us.” Napoleon pauses to take a sip of the tea, the water almost burning his tongue. “But— Illya’s coming out is a boon in this respect: it would look really bad on management not to support the first open relationship of the NHL, certainly of the player they’ve been flaunting about to prove how accepting they are.” 

Sofia sits back down again. “So where lies the potential problem?”

“The only thing that might cause issues is my captaincy,” Napoleon says honestly. “But if worst comes to worst I’ll step down.” 

Sofia raises an eyebrow. “You’ll step down from being a captain?” 

“Yes. I don’t think they want that to happen, so it might shock them back to their senses and I might not even need to go through with it. But if it happens, I’ll be prepared for it. I’ve realised some things lately.” 

Sofia nods encouragingly. 

“I don’t need captaincy to enjoy hockey,” Napoleon says in a rush. “It was pushed on me in circumstances and I accepted because it was something people seemed to expect from me. It’s been important as a motivation, but I don’t need it as much as I did. Stepping down would give me more free time. I’ll still have hockey. I’ll still have the team. I’ll still have Gaby. I’ll have Illya. It wouldn’t feel like a failure, to give it up.” 

“You’ve really thought this through.” 

Napoleon chuckles. “You’ve taught me that having mental options can lessen anxiety about events.” 

“And has it?” 

“Yes. It has. It took a bit to convince Illya I wouldn’t be sacrificing anything for him, but I think he understands now. I wanted to make sure there wouldn’t be lingering guilt.” 

“I’m becoming unnecessary here,” Sofia jokes, smiling. “You’re telling me how you already solved a problem before you even needed to mention it here.” 

“Like I said,” Napoleon says with a smile of his own. “It’s been easier lately.” 

“Due to Illya?” 

“No— or… not directly. I just have mental space to think through my actions because I’m not stressing out about other things so much. I think I didn’t realise how much my stress about keeping secrets was using up my mental capacities. I might have resolved it much earlier, if I’d known that beforehand.” 

“It’s a good lesson to remember.” 

“I will.”

Sofia puts her mug away and smiles. “We’re reaching the end of this session. I’d advice not to stop cold turkey, I have a certain list of things I want to tick off before letting a patient go, and gradually lessening appointments is a part of this process.” 

Napoleon stills, and then frowns. “You really think I’m ready to finish therapy?” 

“I think that you’ve demonstrated you have a very good grip on the tools you’ve learned with me, and your expectations of yourself are very realistic. I think it’s a good idea to consider using these tools independently.” Sofia smiles and adds gently. “You’ve done well, Napoleon. I have complete trust in you.” 

Napoleon shakes his head a little— not disagreeing, just, disbelieving. “Wow.” 

“I’ll send you a more specific schedule of different dates by email, but I would estimate our last appointment could be about four months from now, with a two month break before it. So you have an opportunity to try out your skill set while knowing you’ll not completely on your own yet. 

“That sounds good actually. Gives me some time to get used to the idea.” Napoleon chuckles and takes a breath. “The recovery seemed so endless that I’ve never really envisioned stopping completely.” 

“Yes, definitely give yourself some time to process.” Sofia pauses for a moment, not hesitating— just, weighing her words very carefully: “I never had doubts that the state you were in when you met me, was temporary. It could have been another year and I still would have believed that. The progress you make is noticeable despite what the world throws at you. Of course, if there is ever a mental dip you have trouble coming out of yourself, you’re always welcome to make another appointment. Both for only once or another longer tract. Remember that asking for help is never a failure, and that strength is not found in isolation.” 

“I’ll remember that.” 

“Good,” Sofia says warmly, “Then until next time.” 

“Thank you.” 

—————

It’s not that they hide it—but they do keep it to themselves, at least for a little while. 

Napoleon likes the quiet. He likes the idea that they can build themselves up together without anyone poking their nose in. It’s not like people notice any changes, they’ve been close for months now, coming in together for training and leaving together at the end of the day. The team is used to it. It isn’t their business if Illya happens to stay over in the night.

But Napoleon knows that someday soon, some paparazzi will catch them in a park, or exiting the house together. Though they’re both prepared for that if it happens, Napoleon's still rather have the whole thing come out their initiative. They’ve been lucky, ironically, that the hockey media has been busy with a scandal Young had been cooking up— something about drunken brawls and an aggressive encounter with an ex-girlfriend… Napoleon doesn’t feel the need to keep up with Young’s bullshit. 

It won’t last though. Eventually the media will realise that the player they’ve been speculating wildly about his sexuality, is rarely seen without the only out NHL player in the league. It shouldn’t be hard to connect the dots. 

They’ve talked about it a little, here and there, both conscious of a ‘some day’ but neither sure exactly when that will be. It’s easy to fall back into their own little routine, the outside world a vague concept while huddled together in love-built comfort. Illya has expressed that he doesn’t mind holding back the details of their relationship, but that eventually the team should know. Napoleon agrees with that whole heartedly, and has been mulling over how to bring the news. It would also be his coming out, which is why Illya encourages him to make the decisions in this. 

The opportunity comes in twofold: 

First, Raymond reiterates his invitation to Christmas to Napoleon, this time including Illya. Napoleon asks Illya, a little hesitantly, but receives nothing but a smile and an embrace, which he easily assumes means ‘yes, of course I’ll meet your Hockey-Parent and the man who’s more a father figure than your dad ever was’, or something along those lines. 

Second, both Napoleon and Illya are invited to the Captain’s Rush event. Not as players, this time, but as red carpet guests. 

In the soft Sunday evening they find themselves together once more, Napoleon finally finds the words to his tumbling thoughts. He knows how he wants to do this. 

And once more, Illya does nothing more than smile, and embrace him. 

Which means, he agrees. 

—————

The limousine slows down as they enter a street bordered with fences. Crowds of people stand behind them, bulging the advertisement-filled metal plates under the weight of their enthusiasm. 

“Gaby, is everything set?” 

Gaby snorts— the shaky reception in the area making the noise static and choppy. “I’ve got her number open on my phone and the message copy pasted, and yes— I’ve checked.” 

Napoleon takes a breath and nods to himself, anxiety and excitement climbing up his throat with vengeance. “Good… good.” 

There is a pause. “You know you can back out still, right?” Gaby says, a little slowly. “Illya won’t mind.” 

“No, no—“ Napoleon says. “I want to do this, and besides the team won’t be able to keep their mouth shut for longer than 24 hours.” 

“I mean, you’ve got a point there,” Gaby allows. 

Napoleon’s phone buzzes in his hand. He checks the message quickly and— “Oh, Illya is half way there. I got to go.” 

“Good luck Solo,” Gaby says, “Don’t be too dramatic.” 

Napoleon laughs, hearing the tease for what it is— encouragement. “We wouldn’t want to do that.” 

He takes a breath, wraps his hand around the door handle, and nods to himself. He’s got this. 

The moment the door is open, the noise of hundreds of people washes over him like a tsunami— they’re yelling his name in a cacophony of different voices. Most of them in the high pitched tones of fans, both young and old, but others in the professionally snappish commands of photographers. Napoleon straightens his jacket and poses for a few pictures— less than he normally does, he hears their disgruntlement behind him— and walks over to the fans. He tries not to discriminate, but he finds himself drawn towards the ones holding up the signs that have shown up at their games time and time again.

_#thankyouIllya._

One kid, not older than 13, is wearing his teams jersey and proudly shows off his number, the same as Illya’s only printed in rainbow colours. “All of the numbers are like this,” he yells, smiling from ear to ear. “To make people like him feel at home—“ He hesitates for a moment, biting his lip and lowering his eyes, and Napoleon knows that he’s taking too much time here but he can’t leave now. 

“To make people like me, feel at home too,” the kid says, eventually, barely audible over the crowds around him. But in that single moment, nothing matters to Napoleon. All the remaining spiralling thoughts about coming out fall away, and he reaches out, takes his hand and says, “That makes me feel at home too, you know.” 

The kid gapes, realisation coming over him within seconds, and then Napoleon is called back to the carpet— it is time. 

A woman, skin tight dress and bright red lipstick, grabs Napoleon by the wrist and drags him in front of a camera. He would’ve been annoyed, but the tendrils of excitement cover the usual frustration that comes with demanding press. 

“We’re live here at the red carpet of the Captain’s Rush, with Napoleon Solo,” the woman says to the camera, and then turns towards Napoleon with a hungry smile. “Napoleon, the past months have been quite a splash for you and your team. There are still many questions unanswered about your speech after Illya Kuryakin’s coming out. Do you have more insight to give the thousands of fans watching this charity event?”

It is clever, Napoleon must admit, to poise such a personal question without actually asking it, while reminding the viewers that this is all for a good cause, which means it would be rude for Napoleon to deflect. Luckily, Napoleon doesn’t really play those games anymore. 

“It has certainly been an experience,” Napoleon says warmly, “I’ve learned much about our community, the way the hockey world responded was, let's say, educational. We’ve enjoyed the supporters, and given the detractors as much attention as they deserve. I’ve learned a lot about myself too.” 

His phone buzzes against his thigh. Napoleon smiles without meaning to, he knows what that means. 

“What did you learn?” The woman says, leaning forward a bit. The glint in her eyes tells Napoleon that she thinks she’s on the edge of something— just about to break him and get the quote that will make her career. She isn’t wrong, persee, it just won’t go her way.

“Excuse me,” Napoleon says, pulling out the phone. “I think that is my boyfriend. He’s a bit late.” 

He turns, but slow enough to catch her jaw falling open. The cameraman almost stumbles over a cord, the camera swinging away from Napoleon. 

“Keep on him,” the woman hisses, pulled out of her trance as Napoleon walks back toward the beginning of the carpet. 

A black limousine pulls up at the curb and Illya steps out. 

“Ah, there he is,” Napoleon says loud enough for the microphone to pick it up. He holds up a hand and waves. “Peril! Over here.” 

Illya steps out of the limousine, his deep red suit contrasting beautifully with the dark grey tie Napoleon picked out for him. He looks up, eyes meeting Napoleon’s, and for a moment he shakes his head longsufferingly, but he can’t keep up the farse for too long. The moment Napoleon reaches out to give him a casual kiss, he’s smiling. 

A hush goes over the crowd at first, but within a split second the tides turn and a roar of noise builds up. Napoleon doesn’t listen to any of it. He doesn’t give a shit. 

“You just broke brain of whole nation,” Illya murmurs as they release the embrace. 

“Hush,” Napoleon says, “Let me have my moment.” 

He puts his hand to the small of Illya’s back and leads him to the camera man. The woman’s hands are shaking and she takes a second too long to get herself together, because once she tries, Napoleon cuts her off. 

“I think that answers all your questions,” he says, and gives her and the camera a chilling smile. “Don’t ask them again.” 

He lets the moment hang for a little bit, and then softens his expression, allowing his amusement on the whole ridiculousness of the situation to show. “Now, I’m afraid we’re a bit late to the party, so we must go.” 

“Who fault is that,” Illya says. 

“The way I see it, Peril, you arrived…” Napoleon checks his watch. “A whole five minutes over time.” 

Illya rolls his eyes and bumps their shoulders together. “It was your idea.” 

“You went with it,” Napoleon argues. “You’re supposed to be the one who keeps me in check.”

“I did not sign that contract.” 

Napoleon is completely aware of the camera still following them, and he’s at once spitefully glad to know that those thousands of people are watching this— a normal fucking couple, bickering, flirting, saying nothing at all of interest. They wanted scandal. They wanted another month of content, filled with speculation, blurry photos and drama. But now they can’t. Because it’s all here, right in front of their faces when they weren’t prepared for it. 

Napoleon took the mystery away from them, and the only thing left is the usual; the boring irritating _normal_ : two people, in love, finding themselves way more interesting than anyone else ever will. 

The way it fuckng should be.

“Are you sure?” Napoleon asks, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Illya groans, shaking his head. “Why do I like you. You are annoying.” 

“Because you love me,” Napoleon informs him— informs the world. 

“Yes,” Illya says begrudgingly, but Napoleon senses the fond truth underneath it. “That is it. Trouble.” 

“That’s what I aspire to be.” 

On the way to the entrance, his phone buzzes again. 

_Sent the Crow your message. Prepare for an avalanche._

Napoleon chuckles and sends back:

_Put my phone on mute, don’t worry. We’ll be fine._

—————

They’re planning to be at the airport a few hours early as precaution— a snow storm seems to be growing and they wanted to get ahead of any delays that might come from it— but the extra time turns out to be just enough to make it, the hustle and bustle of Christmas traffic, the meeting of an unfortunate accident on the highway. 

Illya and Napoleon drag all their luggage with them while Gaby sprints forward to ensure the plane won’t leave without them. She goes around the corner almost tripping over a toddler in the process, who seems too surprised to cry about it. 

Once Napoleon and Illya catch up to her, they hear a gentle voice over the intercom call out their plane number, and inform passengers that there will be a delay of another ten minutes for the worst of the winds to pass. 

Napoleon catches his breath, slowing down to a normal pace at the last hundred feet to their gate and sees Gaby walking back to them, an annoyed look on her face. 

“Turns out I did all that running for nothi—“ she cuts off, her eyes going wide, looking at something behind Napoleon. Napoleon can only see a flash of red before a figure rushes past him— directly to Gaby. 

The woman— and Napoleon can now see she’s a woman with a reddish bob cut, black skinny jeans and a leather jacket — glides into a standstill with dancers grace, and then kisses the ever living shit out of Gaby. 

Gaby kisses back for a moment but then seems to regain her bearings, pushing against the woman with a flush blotting her cheeks. “ _Nat,”_ she hisses. _“What the fuck.”_

“I’ve got a week in Majorca for you, if you want it,” says the woman— Nat? “But we gotta go before they notice I’ve taken a detour.” 

That seems to give Gaby pause, and she gives the woman an intense, searching look. 

Some of the confidence seems to spill out of the woman’s body language, but she doesn’t step away. 

“Is it dangerous?” Gaby asks. 

“I’ll keep you safe,” the woman says, without hesitation. 

“That isn’t an answer.” 

“You’ll get them, alright. You’ll get them, I promise,” the woman says, but there is something vulnerable about them, like it’s about more than just this one question. “Just not here.” 

Gaby is quiet for a moment. Illya takes a step towards Napoleon, watching curiously, and the movement makes Gaby’s head snap up. For a split second, she seems to be confused to see them— like she’d forgotten they were even there. 

Her eyes flicker between them and the woman, her jaw twitching, but then her face sets in that determined edge she has when dealing with stubborn clients. 

“Sorry Solo,” Gaby says. “I’m going to shout at my stupid gf for a week.”

The stupid girlfriend in question turns around in that moment and gives them a friendly, if not distant smile. Napoleon gets the sense she isn’t one to show her true emotions, but if he’d had to guess what is behind that perfectly polite mask, it would be that she’s almost falling apart in relief.

“Natasha,” the woman says, “A pleasure to make acquaintance.” 

She doesn’t offer a hand to shake.

Illya is the first to break the following silence. “Have… fun?” 

Something sharp glints in Gaby’s eyes and she grabs Natasha by the wrist. “Oh yes,” she says, dangerously. “Very.” She tugs at Natasha’s wrist and raises her eyebrows. “Now, don’t we have a plane to catch?” 

Natasha flicks her wrist and Napoleon catches something that looks like a watch but seems to high tech to be one. “Yes, we have three minutes to get to the other side of the airport.” 

“Race you,” Gaby says, and then she’s off. 

Natasha follows without another word. 

There is a moment of silence between Napoleon and Illya, broken up by the background noise of the people waiting for their flights, and the echoing footsteps of two women running full speed through an open hall. Natasha darts around the crowds like they’re made of liquid, somehow seeming to be at the exact right moment in the exact right time. Napoleon guesses that Gaby’s lead is not going to last long, with whatever training Natasha has had. 

Something clicks in Napoleon’s mind— the way the woman had held herself, the strange fit of her leather jacket. “Did she have a gun under there?”

“Gaby went with gun woman,” Illya says slowly, by way of confirmation. “Alone.”

“Yup,” Napoleon says. 

“Should worry?”

Napoleon shrugs. “It’s Gaby. If anyone can handle a woman with a gun, it’s her.” 

“Point.” 

—————

This is weird, Napoleon concludes, as he watches the all too familiar clock tick down the minutes of the last therapy session. To think that he’s sat here, what must be dozens and dozens of times, wishing he was everywhere but here, hating the slow turning hands of the clock with all the passion his numbed brain could muster, as if the universe was punishing him by stretching the torturous hour into something that felt like an age. 

But now it feels like they’ve barely started talking and the time is already up, and Napoleon wishes that the seconds wouldn’t disappear so quickly. He’d thought he’d had more time. 

Illya is waiting for him in the waiting room. The thought calms Napoleon enough that when Sofia closes her notebook, he can smile without regret. 

Sofia smiles back and stands up, holding out a hand. 

Napoleon meets her in the middle of the room and shakes it. 

“It has been a pleasure, Napoleon,” Sofia says warmly. “Which I know is strange to say, but your growth over the years has often given me a great reminder of why I do this work.” 

Napoleon nods, and takes a breath as she steps away to open the door for him. “Let me ask a strange request then… “ He begins, hesitating for a second but then he rolls his eyes at himself, if he can’t say what he thinks to her, what was the purpose of all this. “Can I hug you?” 

Sofia lets out a soft chuckle, but there is no hint of mocking in it. “Of course.” 

They embrace, and Napoleon feels something well up inside him— to know that this woman has saved him in so many ways is all at once too overwhelming to process. But he has time to do that. He doesn’t have to do it all at once. “Last strange request, I promise,” Napoleon says, as he releases her, “But if— by chance, a wedding invitation would come your way in somewhere in the coming years, would you be inclined to accept it? You know you’ve been integral in making this possible, and it would mean a lot to me.” 

Sofia puts a hand to his shoulder and squeezes. “I shall free my schedule, when it is time.” 

And then, it is over. Illya meets him in the hallway and leads him outside in silence. He doesn’t ask questions, just gently guides him back to the car and begins to drive. When Napoleon feels something wet start to gather on his cheeks, a few blocks away from home, Illya doesn’t remark on it. He just takes Napoleon’s hand and holds it until they reach home. 

“Thank you,” Napoleon says, eventually, late that evening when the words come back. 

“All the space…” Illya murmurs sleepily, trailing off in a snore. 

“All the space I need,” Napoleon finishes for him, “Yeah. I know.” 

—————

“It would be too much of a fairytale, that’s the general consensus on Twitter. It seems Chimera has positioned itself to be the all time favourite of this season’s final, but at the same time no one expects them to win— or no one wants to expect it, like having too much hope would jinx the whole thing.” 

“But honestly, Michael, it’s already been a fairytale, a dozen times over. Not only is Chimera the first team to have an out player, but also the first team to have an out couple. This in and of itself would be remarkable—“

“Sorry to interrupt, but I have to remind the viewers that this is only accurate for the NHL. The women’s league has had out players and married players long before Kuryakin. I saw some really nice Instagram pictures of a few of the hockey couples going out for dinner, I would recommend checking them out Napoleon’s account, TheSolo.” 

“Of course, we shouldn’t forget that. But the NHL has been forced to make progress in leaps and bounds by the very public reveal of Kuryakin’s and Solo’s relationship, and though detractors let up another roar, we haven’t seen any of that in the results.” 

“We haven’t indeed, and that is where this fairytale narrative comes in. Wouldn’t it be too good, too perfect, for this team to win the cup now, despite it all? To go against homophobia, both institutional and social, and show the world not only that we belong on the ice, but that it is a privilege to have us there.” 

“I understand that this would seem as too much to hope for, but the numbers don’t lie. Napoleon Solo has already been heralded as the highest scoring player this season, because it would be virtually impossible to catch up to his 11 point lead over the other players. Illya Kuryakin is creating a whole new series of records and analysis, where we’ve heard from various sources that his support-focused tactical gameplay will be implemented in training programs next season. The two of them are clearly partners on the ice, innovative and completely trusting, and this spreads to the rest of the team too. We have never seen a more stable performance from them.” 

“I believe that this proves an often overlooked aspect of team sport— that the atmosphere between players matters so much to performance. According to sources inside Chimera, injuries have gone down and both staff and players report higher levels of job fulfilment and lower levels of stress. This is likely in connection to Napoleon Solo’s public efforts to integrate therapy and mental health more prominently in team structure. He’s written a few articles for AMC media, about his own struggles with depression in recent years, and how therapy helped him get through it.”

“I definitely see the correlation and I hope the rest of the league sees it as well. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin have proven themselves to be impactful figures off and on the ice, and tonight we will see if their legendary status will be set in stone, by a well-earned victory tonight.” 

—————

Napoleon never thought it would be this easy. He’d prepared for a grinding fight; a lucky break in the last second, relief a higher note than euphoria. 

But the moment the whistle blows, Illya locks eyes with him, his face open, determined and so god damn happy, and Napoleon thinks— _we’re going to do this. We’re going to win._

And they do. 

It’s a blur of movement, but nothing aches. It’s a thunderstorm of sound, but Napoleon doesn’t hear it. It’s the team, clicking into place and loving it. They’ve never laughed this much on the ice before. Embraces, encouragements, enjoyment. Napoleon feels like he’s flying. 

The only thing he worries about is getting Illya to score one fucking goal. They’re in the lead. They’ve been in the lead for ages. It’s as if the light that glows from the team makes the opponent smaller— they cower away from it, wavering. The only weakness they find is their own. 

Napoleon would almost pity them, if they even mattered at all. 

What matters is the team, the fans, the smiles, the ever delighted disbelief. What matters is Simon with tears in his eyes, watching the game from the bench until he’s allowed to go in. What matters is Blake boasting in Russian, badgering the opponents to shoot and catching every single one. 

“We have to give him a goal,” Napoleon tells Sergei, tells Simon, tells everyone he comes across. They all nod, determined, ever smiling. 

_We have to get him a goal._

It becomes their mission, and Illya catches on quickly— accepting their assists, taking risks, allowing himself to be the star for just this once. 

He gets a head trick. 

Napoleon is happier about that than he is about the fucking cup. 

—————

**NapoIlya Masterpost: They’re fucking engaged!**

**__** _Post created by Hock-gay. 543 replies. 4524 likes_

I know everyone has seen the tweet but Holy Shit. I can’t believe it’s been three years. Three years of following these idiots as they conquered the hockey world with beautiful rainbows. I’ve made a compilation of every iconic moment since this started, from the famous speech Napoleon gave when Illya came out, to the iconic ‘my boyfriend is late’ that still got me quaking. 

For new fans, enjoy your ride! Keep in mind that some of the content can be trigger heavy, certainly the interviews Napoleon has done about his depression and his homophobic asshole of a father. He’s been so candid and open with us, and it’s changing so many lives. 

If you want to read the legendary ThankyouIllya book Chrimeraaaaa made, you can download it here. It’s all public and free and all people in the book were asked before it was publicised. But if you want give Chrimeraaa some well deserved praise for it, you can message her here. 

You Can Play also has printed copies that can be given to hockey clubs or schools, to spread more awareness about the impact and importance of representation. You can also get Making Space in bulk for heavy discounts, all the proceeds go directly to You Can Play and the Kuryakin-helpline. 

(The latter one is also a cool organisation to check out if you need to talk about hockey-specific coming out and mental health issues. The initiative set up by Illya himself, sensing the need for it after his own coming out. It has a well-trained team of coaches and therapists available on call lines for free, who all have various connections to hockey. I called two times and the first time I got a hockey-mom who’s helped six kids get to a college scholarship, and the second time I got a retired NHL coach, how awesome is that.) 

The book ThankyouNapoleon is still gathering stories! So if you have a story about how his open attitude towards mental health has impacted you, send it in through the website: ThankingSoloproject.com. 

Napoleon and Illya have asked that if anyone has the incentive to send them gifts for their wedding, that that time and money would be used instead to donate or volunteer in local efforts to continue ice hockey’s steady progression towards more acceptance. The charities above might suit you, but feel free to be creative! Tweet out your actions using the hashtag #Chimeraweddingpresent 

And now we start the Masterpost!!

_ Read more _

Chimeraaaaaa replied: 

This is amazing! Thank you for the mention and the link to my page. I’ve woken up to so many lovely messages because of this post. Y’all also had quite a few questions about the engagement, and it is true that I made a book for that too. It’s become a tradition I’m so privileged to be a part of, I cannot explain how happy it makes me. I won’t go into too much detail because it is a private moment, but this is what has been shared within Chimera, so it will probably come out in the news any moment:

Y’all were expecting Napoleon to propose on the ice after winning another cup, but that is even a bit too dramatic, even for him. Instead he went all sappy and proposed on another kind of ice— on the frozen pond where Illya had his very first skate. 

According to him, Illya’s mother was watching them in the bushes, crying her eyes out. I’ve seen some pictures, it’s adorable. 

The wedding invitations should be coming up soon! They want to do the wedding before the winter Olympics. How they’re going to manage that, I have no idea, because they have less than a month to make it happen lmao. Hopefully everyone invited is able to make it there! 

—————

“Why are we doing this again?” Napoleon asks, breathless, after the seventh assistant-consultant-snouty person had waltzed through their living room, expressing a lot more distress about the exact shade of yellow incorporated into the flower pieces, than Napoleon thinks is warranted. 

Illya brushes off the small heap of fabric testers that seem to have collected on his lap. He reaches over to draw Napoleon to the sofa, prodding until Napoleon rests against his chest. 

“Because,” Illya says, looking down at him. “If I am not see you for long because of Olympics, I want husband to return home to.” 

Napoleon swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat and flicks Illya’s cheek. “What is this assuming that I’ll be home before you? Do you think I’m going to lose in group stages? For all you know, we’ll be together the whole way.”

Illya tilts his head, considering. “Would you like that? Playing against each other for gold?” 

“You are due a rematch,” Napoleon says. “It’s been a while since we both reached the finals, and depending on our health, this might be our last chance.” 

“So, this time, we will,” Illya seems to decide with complete confidence. 

“The way you say that, it sounds like we’re doing it more for each other than for our countries.” 

Illya raises an eyebrow. “Are we not?” 

Napoleon surges up and kisses him, because what else is he supposed to do with that. 

—————

Not A Report of the Kuryakin-Solo Wedding 

_Written by Michael Tremblay_

On a cold winter morning in a beautiful pinewood forest a couple of hours away from Boston, the sun shines upon a chaotic yet endearing wedding procession. The event tiptoes the line between formal and informal in charming ways, including and not excluding: two motorcycles featuring as the ring bearers while the whole team watches solemnly, dressed in tuxedos and fine Armani shoes, just like the dress code demanded. 

When my husband and I were invited to the wedding, it was my immediate understanding that I wasn’t being invited as a reporter, but as a friend. I’ve had the privilege to get to know the happy couple over the years, and have been involved in a few of their projects. There has been a lot said about both Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, nothing that I could add onto without being repetitive and sounding cliché, so I have decided not to try. Instead I’ll attempt to show these two fine gentlemen not in my own words, but in a few anecdotes that I have gathered during the wedding. 

Again, I did not come there as a reporter, but as a friend I will gladly take this opportunity and share heartwarming and/or hilarious stories about these two amazing human beings. (And, of course, embarrassing them by showing you the pictures as well.) So here they are, in no particular order: 

**A Stranger-Family**

As I’ve said before, the whole team and quite a number of staff showed up for the impromptu wedding celebration, but they were not the only ones affiliated with the NHL. To preserve privacy, I won’t name any names, but in total, about half of the wedding’s guest list must have been professional or college hockey players, all drawn to something they never believed that could happen to one of their own. It felt like a strange reunion between people that have never met before, a family that has just been allowed to build. Illya explained that it started with a few of the players he’d talked to after his own coming out years before. They’d asked him all individually if they could come to the wedding, despite knowing that it was a strange question to ask. 

“I just wanted to see one of us get a happy ending, you know?” One of the players told me, when I asked — it’s a habit, I am sorry — “I thought I’d be the only one to show up, but word spread and Napoleon and Illya welcomed all of us. I knew I wasn’t alone, but now I really believe it.” 

That was truly the whole feel of the evening— the wedding itself was almost a side dish to the main event. A very important one, mind you, but the gathering of so many lgbtq folks, both from the men’s and women’s leagues, was an experience many of us didn’t know we needed. It truly showed our power in numbers, and the instrumental need for us to know each other better. I remember one younger guy, thanking everyone he came across, for ‘giving him hope.’ I think this is a truth for all of us there. 

**Wedding Shenanigans and Wedding Gifts**

To refocus a little bit more on the wedding, there were other memorable moments. The vows, as beautiful as they were, were nothing compared to Illya’s reveal of a second outfit for the first dance. It was, inexplicably for everyone except Napoleon, a pirate costume. Safe to say that the dance was postponed for twenty minutes, as one half was too busy choking on their laughter. 

Besides the lovely tweets of people doing some form of activism or volunteer work in the newlyweds’ name, some guests dared to give material gifts on the wedding. My husband and I were one of the few brave souls, gifting a copy of my great aunt’s recipe book— a collection of eastern European dishes she’d accumulated before moving with her husband to Canada. 

The team pooled together to pressure the coaches, to give the couple an extra week off. The goalie Blake had promised with a hand to his heart that he would be an amazing replacement captain and that he will never let them eat cake, after the wedding of course. Napoleon made him vow not to return ‘hedgehog related injuries’, and only because I wasn’t a reporter that day, I didn’t try to figure that out, despite really wanting to. 

A red haired woman, who did not introduce herself, gave the couple a set of knives that did not look like they were intended for the kitchen, complete with polishing supplies. I also did not ask questions in this instance. 

**Peculiar Guests**

Two other guests stood out to me. One woman with long black hair and a severe expression, walked around with a glass of champagne poised in her hand, and had one glimmering tear on her cheek as the vows were read. She seemed very mournful when she dabbed the tear away and murmured, “and they didn’t even let me live stream, after all I’ve done for them,” to herself. 

Besides her sat another woman who seemed thoroughly more drunk already, as she had been fast-lining wine throughout the evening, eyes perpetually wet. When I asked her if she was okay, she shook her head and said, “Those idiots. I can’t believe it. I’ve had to hear so much pining, for almost three years! And now they’re— I. Christ,” and had promptly left me with yet more unanswered questions. 

 

This is all to saythat the wedding was beautiful. It was a chaotic mess filled with love, shared by friends and soon to be friends, a mesh of strangers and family who will likely see each other again. I have never felt so connected to the people at a wedding before, and Napoleon and Illya have become masters at this exact thing: their constant efforts to connect people have been prevalent throughout the years, and this wedding is just another example of that. 

So thank you. For opening your arms to all of us on such a special and personal day. It was the strangest wedding I’ve ever been to, but also, somehow, the most perfect. 

—————

It’s in the eyes. It always is. 

Illya stands before him, stick ready, mirrored, as they wait for the puck to drop. Two minutes on the clock. Tied. One last chance. 

Their eyes meet, for just a moment. Napoleon knows them so well. Matching rings underneath contrasting jerseys, Napoleon sees the glint of Illya’s chain around his neck.

The ref blows the whistle. Illya smiles at him. 

And just before the puck hits the ice, Illya says just loud enough for Napoleon to hear:

“I love you, _Husband.”_

Napoleon’s heart skips a beat, and Illya is gone with the puck.

“You bastard!” Napoleon shouts, grinning, and follows, but he’s too late. 

Illya scores. 

It costs him the gold, an entirely too smug Illya the rest of the year, and endless recountings of the story by Gaby, as Natasha cackles his embarrassment away. 

Worth it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hot as fuck outside so normally I'd ramble along for ages here but my brain is pudding so here, in short: Love yall. Thank you for everything. I swear I'll catch up on comments soon, so if you suddenly get email notifications that's my fault. Lemme know if this is worthy of the monicker 'happy ending'. I Tried Okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Linx for the beta! I'm planning to post the next chapter next Saturday somewhere. The title is from the poem Winter Morning by Alexander Pushkin. 
> 
> I also had a question for yall still interested in reading DD. The finishing process is gonna take a bit more time (my final deadline for myself is August as I started posting DD in that month and I don't wanna make this shit more than 2 years.) Would y'all mind if I post some other fandoms ficlets in the meantime? I've been tempted by Good Omens, but I don't wanna give you guys the feeling I've abandoned Drowning Deep, ya feel. Let me know!


End file.
